


Don't Tell Me It's Nothing

by Brytanie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Police Brutality, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brytanie/pseuds/Brytanie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire can't forget that Enjolras kissed him.  Enjolras will do anything to take it back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The morning after the kiss, hope and distress chase each other through Grantaire’s mind.  The urge to talk about it is overwhelming but he doesn’t know who to tell – should he even tell anyone?  Grantaire composes and deletes text after text to his friends before finally setting his phone down.

The only person Grantaire wants to speak to is Enjolras.  He wants to call but what if Enjolras doesn’t want to talk about it?  _Maybe just a text_ , he thinks, _less confrontational_.

But Enjolras makes the decision for him and his phone is ringing.

“Hello?” Grantaire tries to keep his voice neutral.  _Pretend like it meant nothing_ , he tells himself, _and you won’t be disappointed._

“Grantaire.” At the sound of his name, Grantaire clenches his teeth, face caught between a smile and a grimace.  “It’s Enjolras.  How are you?”

The question sounds sincere.  Grantaire doesn’t know what Enjolras wants him to say.  Just this once, he doesn’t want to lie, so he says, “Nervous.”  It’s true enough.

“Nervous?”

“Well, I figure you’re calling for a reason, most likely related to last night, and it makes me nervous.”

“So you remember.”

 _Of course,_ he wants to say, _no amount of alcohol could have made me forget_.  “I wasn’t that drunk, actually.”  At least at the time.

“Hmm.” A pause.  “I’m not upset, if that helps your nerves at all.”

“It does.” _Not upset_ still leaves a lot of unfavourable emotions like _disappointed_ or _apathetic_ or _revolted_ but he gets to cross _upset_ off the list and he will celebrate every victory.  “I’m not upset either.”

“That’s good to hear.”  Grantaire grins at the sound of the smile in Enjolras’ voice.  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay with everything.”

“What’s everything?” _Stupid question._ But Grantaire has to know.

“Well, I mean...” Enjolras sighs.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t usually struggle like this. This isn’t exactly my area of expertise.”

“It’s okay.”  Grantaire finds he will say almost anything to keep Enjolras talking.  “It doesn’t need to be perfect, just say what you want to say.”

Enjolras outright chuckles at that.  “Is this Grantaire giving me advice on how to get my point across?  Encouragement instead of argument?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Grantaire mutters.

“Alright, alright.  I’m only stalling.”

“Tell me.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, “I can’t fully explain why I did it.  You know how Courfeyrac’s parties are.”  Grantaire doesn’t understand what Enjolras means by that but he lets it slide.  “And...the way you smiled at me was inspiring.”

Grantaire blinks several times.  His smile inspired Enjolras to kiss him.  Grantaire’s mind is always keen to pick apart compliments but this one gives him trouble.  “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Don’t ask me to explain myself,” Enjolras says.  “I’m having a hard enough time putting it into any words at all.”

“Okay.”  Grantaire breathes.  “Okay.  So what now?”  Grantaire tells himself he will be happy with any answer that isn’t _nothing_.

“I don’t know.”  Well it isn’t nothing but it’s not a straight answer either.  Why would Grantaire’s life ever be so simple?  “I need to think.  I can’t sort out what’s going on in my head at the moment.”  Grantaire knows that feeling well.  “As long as you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Grantaire replies quickly.  He’s not even sure if it’s a lie or not.   “Are you?”

“Yes.” Pause.  “I will be.”

Grantaire closes his eyes tight and tries to figure out what that’s supposed to mean but he can’t ask.  Enjolras explicitly told him not to.  “I’ll see you later then.”

“Right.”  And then the call is over and Grantaire sinks down to the floor, no more than a single pile of emotion unable to support itself.

 

 

Grantaire thinks it would have been much easier if he had kissed Enjolras, not the other way around.  If he had kissed Enjolras, he could have laughed it off, ignored the burn, pretended to forget the taste of his Apollo. 

But Enjolras forced him to hope, and that alone is crueler than any harsh words he could have said.  Enjolras forced him to memorise the feel of his lips.  Enjolras let him think he had a chance of meaning something to him. 

It’s really Grantaire’s fault, in the end, because he should have known the truth all along.

 

When Grantaire finally sees Enjolras in person, he still hasn’t sorted himself out.  It’s been a few days since he last spoke to him.  He skipped a short meeting earlier in the week – nothing important, but it had been too soon and Grantaire couldn’t find a reason to go. 

But it’s the regular Thursday meeting now and if Grantaire doesn’t show up the others will notice.  He never misses a meeting, except for the time he was in the hospital and the other when he was passed out in a ditch, and sometimes his friends worry if he doesn’t make an appearance. 

He shows up late, Enjolras already speaking, so Grantaire just settles into the back and drinks his brandy.  Every mouthful burns, and he swallows slowly, revelling in the feeling.  Grantaire only argues directly with Combeferre and Feuilly.  As soon as Enjolras jumps in, he shuts up.  It’s not on purpose.  His throat just constricts until he manages to work it open with liberal amounts of alcohol.  He’s still not sure exactly where he and Enjolras stand and he doesn’t want to ruin any chance that his supposedly inspiring smile created for itself.

By the time the meeting’s done, Grantaire’s well on his way to drunk.  It makes smiling at Courfeyrac easy when he approaches him, even though Enjolras is shooting them glances as he speaks to Combeferre.

“You okay, R?” Courfeyrac asks, sliding into a chair next to him.

“Grand, in fact. Just like you would expect.”

“Why?”

“My name, you see.”

Courfeyrac snorts.  “Right.”  Silence falls, and Grantaire doesn’t even realise he’s staring at Enjolras until Courfeyrac asks, “Have you spoken with him?”

“Who?”

“Enjolras.  Who else?”

Grantaire narrows his eyes.  “What did he tell you?”

“It was my party.  I always know who kisses who at my party.”  He grins then.  “In fact I had a prime view through the kitchen window.”

“Who else knows?”

“No one.  I think.”  Courfeyrac sighs.  “So.  Back to my question.”

“Remind me what that was again.”

“Have you spoken to him.”

“Right.”  Grantaire pauses to swallow another mouthful of brandy.  He shakes his flask, frowning.  How is it already almost empty?  “He called me the morning after.”

“And?”

“Apparently my smile was inspiring.”

Courfeyrac laughs at that.  “That sounds just like him.  For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were his target.  Wasn’t exactly smart of him but he’s kind of oblivious when it comes to these things.”

And that’s when Grantaire suspects that something is terribly wrong.

 

The night of the kiss isn’t terribly interesting until Enjolras approaches him.  Grantaire is not yet shit faced enough to enjoy the antics of his friends and he takes a brief break out on the deck.  He tells them it’s to have a smoke but he fills a plastic cup with a few good shots of vodka as well.  His friends aren’t exactly lightweights but it takes him a bit of an extra shove to get on their level.

After psyching himself up and downing the vodka in one go, Grantaire lights a cigarette to replace the burn of the alcohol with the burn of smoke.  He’s contemplating the pros and cons of quitting one of his many vices to avoid early death when he hears the door slide open behind him.

Enjolras leans against the rail beside him and Grantaire regrets not bringing more alcohol with him.  “Apollo!” He greets cheerfully.  “Come to determine your share of the local heavens?”  It’s not a direct quote, but close enough that Enjolras gets it.

“I thought you were studying Classics, not American literature,” Enjolras says with a raised eyebrow.

“It may shock you to know that I do read outside of class material.” It’s not exactly the truth – The Great Gatsby had been a high school assignment – but Grantaire figures he’s allowed a few white lies.

Enjolras turns to gaze at said heavens for a moment before replying, “I suppose it is a little surprising.”

“Turns out there’s more to me than alcohol and cynicism.”  It comes out more bitter than Grantaire was expecting.

“I know that,” Enjolras shifts his gaze to him, all intense.  “I just wish you were like this more often.”

Grantaire blinks and takes a long drag from his cigarette.  “Care to explain?” He asks.  He doesn’t really see how he’s acting any differently.

“Less argumentative.”  Enjolras continues to study him and Grantaire can’t break eye contact.  “A real conversation.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Enjolras,” Grantaire says slowly, “but I think I’ve only said about three sentences to you since you came out here.  Not really a conversation.  Maybe a beginning of one.”

“A mere beginning is a vast improvement over our past encounters,” he replies.  “You haven’t even said anything to make me angry with you.”

Grantaire finds it difficult to come up with a response with Enjolras staring at him.  He doesn’t want to waste having his full attention.  “And you haven’t even said anything that inspires my cynicism,” he finally replies lamely. 

Enjolras smiles then and Grantaire can’t help smiling back.  It’s weird, having a conversation with him, watching him up close instead of from afar, getting to hear his voice filled with calmness instead of passion or anger.  It’s a side of Enjolras that Grantaire doesn’t know but wants to drink in forever. 

Before Grantaire can act, Enjolras’ lips are against his own.

It’s a quick kiss.  The pressure and warmth are there only for a second before Enjolras pulls away.  Grantaire vaguely thinks he must have the world’s most stupid expression on his face.  “Sorry,” Enjolras says and Grantaire squints at him, thinks he sees the faintest blush.  “I don’t know why I did that.”  Then he turns and leaves the deck.

Grantaire decides it’s high time to get completely wasted.

 

A week later and Grantaire decides to call Enjolras at two in the morning.  He comes home from the bar and collapses onto his bed, phone pressed against his ear.  Enjolras hadn’t been there.  He hadn’t seen him since the meeting, and questions and suspicions have been eating him alive since his conversation with Courfeyrac.

Enjolras picks up on the second ring.  “Grantaire, it’s late, what is it?”  There’s a certain resignation in his voice.   This isn’t the first time that Grantaire’s called him this late.  It’s the first time that Grantaire’s been so torn up about it.

“Did I wake you up?”

“No, I’m studying.”

There’s a long pause before Grantaire just blurts it out.  “Why did you kiss me?”  It’s a lot more desperate than he wants it to be.  Pathetic, really.

Enjolras sighs.  “I thought you spoke to Courfeyrac about this.”

“Courfeyrac called me your target.”

“Is that all he said?”

“What does Courfeyrac know, anyway?” Grantaire asks, annoyed.  Enjolras is avoiding his question.  “He said he just watched from a window.  Why does Courfeyrac know more than-“

“Grantaire.”  There’s a certain urgency to Enjolras’ voice that Grantaire really doesn’t like.  “Did he not explain?”

“Clearly not,” he replies.

A long pause passes and Enjolras breathes deeply.  “Will you remember this conversation in the morning, because I don’t want to explain myself twice.”

“I’ll leave myself a note,” Grantaire snaps.  He’s _really_ tired of Enjolras’ delaying.

“This is what happened,” Enjolras says.  “Earlier in the night, Courfeyrac had been bothering me about how I hadn’t kissed anyone.”  Grantaire takes a moment to appreciate that he was Enjolras’ first kiss, silently celebrating, before remembering that Enjolras is about to tell him something terrible.  “He kept bugging me, telling me I didn’t know what I was missing.”  Grantaire can hear the frustrated tone to Enjolras’ voice.  It’s the tone he gets when someone tells him he’s wrong.

Enjolras hates being told he’s wrong.

“I don’t know why but his words kept going around in my head,” he continues.  “And then we were talking on the balcony and it was surprisingly civil and like I said, your smile inspired me.  I didn’t mean anything by it.”

And there it is, the _nothing_ answer he had feared when Enjolras called him a week ago.  “You know I’m in love with you.”  Grantaire doesn’t mean to say it but he wants to hurt Enjolras, and the best weapon he has is guilt.

“Courfeyrac mentioned something to that extent.”  Enjolras says slowly, sounding uncomfortable.  “That’s why I called to apologise last week.”

“But you didn’t, did you?”  Grantaire doesn’t feel upset, not really. Just empty.  Empty and vengeful.  “I asked you what it meant and you said you didn’t know.  You made me think it might have meant something.”

“Grantaire, I-“

“What?”  He can’t stop the words now.  “Do you really think there’s something you can say to make this all better?  This is the one thing you can’t undo, Enjolras.  You’re really good at inspiring and convincing and uplifting or whatever.  Fuck, it’s half the reason why I fell for you, the way you talk.  But you can’t fix this.  You fucked with me, Enjolras, yanked me around on your little chain like I’m some sort of dog and you didn’t even realise you were doing it.  There’s _nothing_ you can say now.”

“Then why are you still on the phone?” Enjolras responds coldly.

Grantaire doesn’t even end the call, just smashes his phone against the wall and screams.

Grantaire is really just a mistake, and he always knew it but somehow learning the same lesson over and over again doesn’t make it any easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so marks my first foray into AO3. :)
> 
> Come join me on my lonely tumblr that I just made if you like: willtheworldrememberyou.tumblr.com  
> If you want to request or chat or be lovely :).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dear friends :)
> 
> You have all convinced me to continue this with your lovely comments (your smiles inspired me, as Enjolras would say). Thank you for your support!
> 
> If you're just coming across this fic now, you can ignore the rest of this note.
> 
> Since I wasn't originally planning on continuing this, I had to change the summary and the last part of chapter 1 because it messes up the timeline. This entire chapter comes before the "two weeks, three days" part so I took it out. It will come later, most likely next chapter. Come ask me at my tumblr (willtheworldrememberyou.tumblr.com) if this doesn't make sense :)

The morning after the call, Grantaire wakes up to a broken phone and a broken head.

It’s all too much for him to face.

He swallows a few mouthfuls of vodka to stave off his cravings and falls back asleep.

 

Grantaire isn’t avoiding anyone on purpose.  It’s just that the regular meeting is not until Thursday and the screen on his phone is broken and he can’t even unlock it.  Nobody shares a class with him – his degree calls for classes that are a far cry from the Political Science and Philosophy courses of his friends.

He even stops in at the Musain to grab a coffee one morning to see if anyone’s around.  Usually a couple of the Amis will be studying or debating or whatever people who care do, but Grantaire is greeted by unfamiliar faces.  In some twisted way, it makes sense.  _It’s when I’m not trying to disappear_ , he thinks, _when I actually want to see them, that I am alone_.

It’s not that he’s particularly upset, Grantaire decides as he chugs some of his coffee to make room for the brandy.  He knows that he’s still kind of fucked up over what Enjolras did, but he’s always fucked up over something.  The last few nights have been hard but if he gets drunk enough it doesn’t really matter anyway.

Grantaire just wishes someone would show up before he can convince himself otherwise.

 

By Wednesday, Grantaire has started to convince himself otherwise.

He stares at the ceiling from his position on his couch, contemplating what he should do, trying to keep a handle on his emotions.  There are a couple bottles within arm’s reach just in case but Grantaire feels drunk enough already to think about Enjolras.

Enjolras holds a lot of power.  Grantaire knows this.  If he decides to finally banish him from the Amis, he knows whose side they all will take.  Sure, Grantaire is good for a joke or two, but he holds no real sway over any of them.  He could become friendless in a single day if Enjolras willed it.  Maybe they’d protest at first, but who really cares about a drunk in the face of a passionate leader?

But it doesn’t make sense.  Grantaire didn’t do anything.  Enjolras was the one who kissed him.  Would he finally kick him out of his little school club because of his own actions?  Is Enjolras that selfish?

 _Yes,_ Grantaire thinks.  Enjolras is capable of being terrible.

But that also is unfair.  Enjolras most likely has already forgotten it ever happened.  Probably doesn’t even think of him.  Probably expects him to show up at the meeting tomorrow like nothing’s wrong.

And his friends?  Well, it’s not the first time Grantaire has disappeared, even if he didn’t mean to do it.  They probably haven’t noticed either.  _It will be easy,_ he thinks.   _I’ll laugh it off tomorrow, tell them I broke my phone when I was too wasted to see.  Then they’ll chuckle, say ‘oh Grantaire and his little drunken antics’ then continue the meeting like nothing has happened._

Grantaire rubs at his face, covering up his view of the ceiling.  “Nothing’s wrong,” he whispers to himself.  _Not one thing._ It sounds mocking even in his own head.

Someone pounds at his door and he jumps a little.  It takes Grantaire a moment to drag himself off the couch, mind whispering _what if it’s Enjolras come to apologise what if what if_

It’s not.

“Thank fuck you’re here,” Eponine says, pushing by him.  She immediately begins pacing around his tiny living room.  “Grantaire, you have started the biggest shit storm since Hurricane Katrina.”

“Sorry?”  He follows Eponine’s movements with his eyes, waiting for her to explain.

Finally, Eponine settles on his couch.  “I need a drink.”

Grantaire blinks a few times.  “What do you feel like?”

“I don’t care.”

Rummaging through his kitchen, he manages to mix them each a cranberry vodka.  “Are you going to explain what I’ve done this time?”  He says, handing her a drink and sipping his own.

Eponine takes a long drink from the glass, and Grantaire admires how she doesn’t even wince at the liberal amounts of vodka he added.  _Just like a pro,_ he thinks.  “Not just you, actually.  It’s Enjolras too.”

“Enjolras.”  Always him, every time.

“Yeah.  I heard it all from Marius.  Apparently he’s been acting weird lately and asking Courfeyrac all these questions about you.”

“What kind of questions?”  Grantaire doesn’t like this story one bit. 

She doesn’t reply right away, tapping away at her phone.  “Sorry, just letting the others know I found you.” she finally says.  “Once Courfeyrac got involved everyone heard about it pretty quickly and we’ve all been kind of worried about you.”

“Are you going to explain why, or...?”  There are a million little things that she’s said that he wants to pick apart but he figures he should deal with the whole Enjolras story first.

“Right.”  Eponine sighs, shakes her head.  “So Enjolras was being weirder than usual and Courfeyrac started to get suspicious because none of us have heard from you.  Speaking of which, why haven’t you been replying to our texts or calls?”

“Phone’s broken,” he says.  “Can’t afford to fix it.”  Grantaire really wishes Eponine would stop interrupting herself and just _tell him what happened with fucking Enjolras_ but he does owe her an explanation.

“Yeah, we figured that it was something stupid like that.”  She grins at him.  “No offense, but you’re not the best at keeping in touch sometimes.  So no one was too concerned until Enjolras told Courfeyrac about something.  Not sure what, this is all second hand from Marius, but he said they were really yelling at each other.  Apparently Courfeyrac wants Enjolras to apologise to you?”

Grantaire doesn’t respond, just drinks his drink and avoids looking at her.

“Anyway,” Eponine continues.  “Enjolras stormed off and Courfeyrac gathered everyone at his and Marius’ apartment and starts saying we have to find you and just generally freaking everybody out.  I offered to come check your place and now here I am.”

A few moments pass.  “That’s all you know?”

“Pretty much.  Courfeyrac really didn’t tell us anything, just said that you had some sort of fight, that it was worse than usual.  That he was worried you’d done something.”  Eponine smiles a little.  “We all felt kind of guilty because we assumed you were okay.  We just thought we’d see you tomorrow, like always.”

Grantaire smiles back, even though it’s the last thing he feels like doing.  _If you are unreliable,_ Grantaire tells himself, _don’t expect your friends to rely on you._ “It’s fine.  I’m fine.  This whole Enjolras thing is...” He didn’t have it in him to call it _fine._ “I just want to forget about it.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Grantaire takes a moment to look up at the ceiling.  _I just want it to all go away._ “I called him while drunk on Saturday and he was pretty upset about it.  Things escalated and I ended up breaking my phone.”

“Shit,” Eponine mutters.  “You okay?”

“I was drunk,” Grantaire replies.  “I don’t really remember it anyway.” 

Lies upon lies upon lies but Grantaire isn’t even bothered.

 

The next day at the meeting, Grantaire tries to stroll in like nothing is wrong but the Amis are having none of it.  Courfeyrac wraps him up in a huge hug the second he walks through the door.  “No one knows what happened at the party a couple weeks ago,” he whispers.  “They just know you fought with Enjolras.  Who is a total fucking asshole, by the way.  He told me what he said to you on the phone.”

Grantaire shrugs off Courfeyrac, feeling trapped.  “It’s fine.” He wonders how many times he’s going to have to say that.

He pushes passed Courfeyrac and comes face to face with Enjolras.

Grantaire’s breath stops in his throat.

Everything is the complete and utter opposite of fine.

 

After the meeting, Enjolras approaches him.  Grantaire’s been drinking moodily, which means more than usual, and he can already tell it’s not going to be a good conversation.

“Apollo,” Grantaire says, gesturing wildly to the chair across from him.  “Sit, sit.”

The other Amis are lurking in the background, Combeferre frowning and looking like he wants to approach.  Courfeyrac shoos them all out.  He gives one last thumbs up to Grantaire before leaving, which is a little comical in his opinion.  _Thumbs up, Grantaire,_ he thinks, _there’s no way this could go wrong._

“I wanted to apologise,” Enjolras says carefully.  “My actions have been inexcusable.”

“Do you want to apologise,” Grantaire interrupts what he figures is going to be a long and perfectly executed apology speech, which he doesn’t want to hear.  He is in no way ready to accept an apology, and Enjolras is entirely too convincing.  “Or does Courfeyrac want to apologise on your behalf?”

Enjolras frowns, annoyed.  “Do I look like Courfeyrac?”

“No.”  He grins.  “But his words, I suspect.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, almost looking human in his frustration.  “This is very difficult for me,” he murmurs.  “To acknowledge that I fucked up.”

Grantaire thinks it’s the first time he’s ever heard him swear.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.” Enjolras says.  

Enjolras always manages to break down Grantaire piece by piece, without even really meaning to.  Regret is Grantaire’s emotion, not Enjolras’.  It’s all wrong, it’s fucked up, and Grantaire doesn’t know how to fix it.  Maybe he’s just too drunk.

He has to laugh at his own despair.

“Ah, Apollo,” Grantaire says, “you regret the one thing that makes my life worth living!”

“Don’t say that.”  The words are cold.

“And here comes your marble shield against your guilt,” Grantaire says.  “Do you feel safe behind it?”

“Grantaire.”   Enjolras is staring at the table, down at his clenched fists. “Please.”

“Please what?  What does the great Enjolras want from me?”

“Just tell me how to fix this.”  He says it quietly, not looking up.  “It’s...I don’t...” His eyes flick up then, and Grantaire is lost.

“Poof,” Grantaire snaps his fingers.  “Fixed.”

 

Later that night, Grantaire traces a finger along his lips over and over again, trying to remove the feeling of Enjolras.

It only serves to remind him of what will never again be his.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes a few convincing shots of whiskey but Grantaire manages to go to all his classes on Friday, even his last class on the Greek and Roman Epic.  Usually Grantaire skips it on principle but he has the whole weekend to sleep and drink and he sees no real reason to get a head start.

Grantaire arrives late, and as he looks around for a place to sit, he notices the back of Jehan’s head two rows from the door.  A few seconds pass before he processes that Jehan is in his class.  Confused, Grantaire slides into the seat next to him.  “Why are you here?”

Jehan jumps a little.  “Grantaire!  I was worried you weren’t going to show up again.”

“Again?”

“I came on Wednesday as well.”

“Oh.”  Grantaire considers that for a moment.  “Did you happen to take notes?”

Jehan beams and passes him two sheets of paper covered in beautifully crafted writing.  _I wonder if I’ll ever read this,_ he thinks.  “Thanks.”  Grantaire pulls out his notebook and begins doodling.

Then he remembers that Jehan never actually answered his question.

Grantaire looks over.   Jehan has already filled half a page with poetry.  “Jehan,” he whispers.

“What?”  He doesn’t look up, just keeps scrawling down line after line.

“You didn’t tell me why you were here.”

Jehan smiles, a little.  “Do I need an excuse to visit a friend?”

 _Yes._ “I guess not.”

When the lecture ends, Jehan gives him a quick hug then heads to his own class.  Grantaire stares after him, wondering how much Jehan has picked up on and how much Grantaire has missed.

 

Courfeyrac shows up at his place that night to accompany him to the bar.  It’s nothing too out of the ordinary, except when they arrive, he’s greeted by all of the Amis, minus Enjolras, staring at him with expectant eyes. 

“This better not be a fucking intervention.”

“Did you sort out your shit with Enjolras?” Bahorel says. 

Three or four of them start speaking at the same time, but it’s Cosette who wins out in the end.  “We just wanted to check in on you.  See if everything’s alright.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow.  “At a bar?  Real nice.”

“Well, we wanted to make sure you showed up.” Bahorel grins.  _He has a point,_ Grantaire thinks.

“I think we’re getting a little off topic,” Combeferre says.  Grantaire is surprised to see him there.  _What is this actually about?_ “Enjolras aside, your phone is broken.  We want to help.”

“Before you can say no,” Courfeyrac jumps in, still standing beside him, “we’ve already all chipped in money.  You said your screen’s broken, right?  Should cost about a hundred or so to be replaced.”

He presses an envelope into his hand and Grantaire can’t decide if this is an ambush or a genuine offer.  “Thanks.”  There’s no point in turning down the cash.  He can’t afford to fix his phone anyway and he will probably end up with the money regardless of what he says.

Apparently that’s the magic word, because Bahorel starts calling for drinks and Cosette draws Marius into a conversation.  Before Grantaire can really analyse the situation, Combeferre of all people is pulling him aside with a hand on his arm.

“He’s not really a bar person,” Combeferre says, “But I thought you should know that Enjolras did contribute a fair bit of money.”

 _What is this,_ Grantaire thinks, _some sort of peace offering?  Trying to buy my forgiveness?_ “Didn’t think you were a bar person either,” he responds.

Combeferre just shrugs.  “Since you seemed fairly distracted at Thursday’s meeting, I am going to remind you that the petition drive is tomorrow.”

“Right.” Sometimes Grantaire gets so distracted by Enjolras that he forgets the Amis actually have a purpose.  “We’re meeting outside the Parliament building, right?  I’ll show up at some point.”

Combeferre places a hand on his shoulder.  “I’ll look for you.” And then he’s gone, out the door before Grantaire can reply.

“Why does everyone have to be so fucking weird?” he mutters. 

“Hope I’m not included in that,” Eponine says.  Grantaire turns to look at her, and she hands him a drink with a broad smile.

 _Finally,_ Grantaire thinks as he accepts the drink, _something I understand._

 

The next day is bitterly cold and Grantaire kind of hates Enjolras for doing anything outside when there’s a foot of snow on the ground.  As a compromise with himself, Grantaire doesn’t show up at the Parliament building until around noon.  One can’t expect him to be freezing _and_ on time, after all.

When he arrives, Enjolras is already speaking to a small group of people while Bahorel passes around a clipboard.

“The Government wants to raise our tuition without our input,” Enjolras says, voice raised to be heard.  “Without our support.  Without even questioning if it is best for the students.  They think they can force through a bill while we keep silent.  They think they can jeopardize our standard of living and we will have nothing to say about it.  I ask you to raise your own voice with mine. Say no. Sign the petition!”

Enjolras is at his best, hands slashing through the air as he speaks, eyes flashing, voice full of passion.  Grantaire can’t look away.  He told Enjolras that half the reason he fell for him is the way he speaks.  The other half is entirely the way he moves.  There’s a perfect balance of grace and power to him that Grantaire finds entirely unfair.

As he continues on, Grantaire’s gaze drops unbidden to Enjolras’ lips.  The words flowing out are harsh and accusing, but Grantaire can’t help but notice how soft they look, they way they shape the vowels and spit out the consonants...

“Don’t let Quebec return to a time when education was only for the elite, not after we’ve come so far! Don’t let the Government-“ Enjolras stops abruptly.  Grantaire glances up from his lips to see Enjolras looking directly at him.

_Fuck._

Grantaire spreads his arms.  “I am here, Apollo.”

Enjolras turns his back to him and continues on.

Arms still out, Grantaire looks over at Bahorel.  “I hope you know we’re getting shitfaced tonight.”

Bahorel grins.

 

Eventually, Enjolras pauses from his speech to send Grantaire to work with Courfeyrac and Feuilly outside the library.  He gets hungry along the way and stops for lunch, ends up getting distracted by a pretty girl who strikes up a conversation, and somehow it’s an hour and a half before Grantaire actually finds them.  Their method is much less enthusiastic than Enjolras’ speeches, instead approaching people one by one and politely asking if they will sign.

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac calls, grinning.  “Didn’t think you were actually going to come.  Enjolras texted me forever ago.”

Grantaire shrugs.  “I got sidetracked by food and women.”

“Do you even know what we’re protesting for?”  Feuilly asks.

Grantaire manages to recall Enjolras’ words.  “Government jeopardising our standard of living with tuition hikes, denying our right to affordable education, something like that.”

Courfeyrac laughs.  “Almost like Enjolras himself.  If only you believed any of it.”

“How can you not care?”  Feuilly says.  “It’s not like you can afford a tuition increase.  You’re exactly the kind of person that this is about.”

Grantaire sighs.  “I’ll find a way to survive.  I’m pretty resourceful .  Plus, do you really think a few scribbles on a piece of paper are going to change anyone’s mind?”

“Uh, no offense, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, “but you’re really not helping.  In fact you’re kind of doing the opposite.”

“Right.  My mistake.”  He mock bows.  “I will be the perfect model of a revolutionary spirit from this moment on, I promise you.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head.  “Just try not to cause too much trouble.”

 

In the end, there’s really not much for Grantaire to do.  He tries handing out pamphlets for awhile but quickly gets bored.  Once his bottle of orange juice and vodka is gone, Grantaire doesn’t hesitate in pulling out his flask of whiskey. 

Grantaire doesn’t really see the problem in it – he needs to keep warm somehow. He even makes an effort to hide it in his coat sleeve.   As far as anyone passing by is concerned, he’s just a guy who happens to be sitting on a bench close to a couple of protesting students. 

A friend from one of his classes passes by and Grantaire calls him over. 

“Montparnasse, how are you?” Grantaire says.

“Not too bad.”  His eyes flick over to Courfeyrac and Feuilly.  “You’re not still fucking about with these guys, are you?”

“Unfortunately, it’s true.”  Grantaire thinks ‘fucking about’ is the most accurate way to describe his involvement with the Amis.

Montparnasse pulls out a pack of cigarettes, putting one between his lips.  “Want one?”

“Thanks.”  He’s never been one to turn down a free smoke.  Feeling generous, he offers up his flask. “Whiskey?”

“I’ll pass.”  Montparnasse pulls off a glove to light their cigarettes.  “If you want to come around tonight, we’re having a little party at my place.”

Grantaire shakes his head.  The last time he had gone to his apartment for a party, he’d almost ended up in the hospital.  “No thanks, I...”  Grantaire happens to glance over at Courfeyrac at that moment and sees Enjolras standing next to him.  _Double fuck._ “...have to go.”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire and he has no time to react.  He knows exactly how he must look – cigarette perched between his lips, flask in hand, talking to Montparnasse of all people – and he knows he’s gotten himself in deep shit.

Enjolras starts to approach him and the word _fuck_ runs repeatedly through his mind.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks once Grantaire’s within hearing distance.

“Uh...” Montparnasse pisses off then, for which Grantaire is eternally grateful because getting scolded by Enjolras in public is mildly embarrassing.  “Taking a break?”

Enjolras regards him with a disdainful look.  His face is all hard lines and disappointment and there is no sympathy in his eyes.  The memory of Enjolras’ warmth and calmness the night they kissed comes to his mind.  It’s the warmth he reserves for late night discussions with Combeferre, Grantaire decides, or meetings over coffee with Courfeyrac.  There is none whatsoever reserved for him.

Grantaire is instantly and infinitely jealous.

“I think you should leave,” he says.  There’s no trace of Enjolras the Person, only Enjolras the Revolutionary.  “Sleep off whatever’s in that flask.”

“It’s only a little whiskey, Enjolras.”  Grantaire stands, makes sure he doesn’t waver.  Appearing drunk would completely undermine what he’s about to say.  “It wouldn’t kill you to try some. Might even help you relax a little.”  Defiantly, Grantaire takes a long pull from his flask and an even longer drag from his cigarette.

“Grantaire, it’s not a suggestion.”  Enjolras’ voice is tight, barely containing his anger.  “I want you to _leave._   Don’t disrupt our cause.”

“Oh!” Grantaire calls, “the _cause,_ how could I fucking dare?”  He knows he’s causing a scene but doesn’t really care at the moment.  It’s all the emotions that Enjolras has dragged him through expelled in one fell swoop.  “How completely fucking horrible of me.”

Enjolras breathes out heavily.  “Grantaire, please.”

 _Grantaire, please._ The same words he said to him three nights before.  Somehow that’s all it takes.

“Please what, Enjolras?” Grantaire walks up to him, gets right in his face.  “Please fuck off?  Please do my job?  Can’t really do that, now can I, considering tagging along with Courfeyrac and Feuilly is completely fucking pointless. You knew they had everything covered.  You knew there would be nothing for me to do.  What did you fucking expect?”

“I didn’t trust you on your own.”  Enjolras isn’t yelling.  Angry, yes, but his voice is completely under his control.  “I thought you might turn to drinking and forget about the petition altogether.  You’ve done nothing to prove me wrong.”

“Wow.  You really set me up to fail then, didn’t you?”  Grantaire spits out the words.  “Fuck, Enjolras, can’t you try to trust me just once?”

Courfeyrac appears at his side and tries to pull him away by the arm.  All Grantaire wants is to walk away on his own, but Courfeyrac won’t let him go.  “Get off me Courfeyrac, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Let’s just go, okay?”  Courfeyrac wraps his other arm around his shoulders. 

Grantaire flings him off.  “Go suck a dick.  You’re not my mother.”

Then he’s free from Courfeyrac’s hands and Enjolras’ stare.

Grantaire doesn’t dare look back at either of them.

 

“Dude, are you okay, I’ve never seen you distracted from drinking before.” 

Grantaire glances down at his glass of beer.  It’s not like he needs it – he’s been drinking almost constantly since leaving the library.  He’s in the mood for something a little stronger but Bahorel insisted on a pitcher.

“Are you at least going to explain why we’re at a bar by ourselves on the far side of town?” 

Closing his eyes, Grantaire considers telling Bahorel everything that has happened, from the kiss until that very moment.  But that would require reliving the fight from earlier and he is not prepared to do that.  “Everyone’s been really weird lately and I’m fucking sick of it.”

“Well yeah, Courfeyrac scared the shit out of us on Wednesday.”  Bahorel snorts.  “You should have seen him, almost pulled all his hair out.  Kept going on about how we needed to check all the hospitals and shit.  Good thing Eponine found you or Courfeyrac would have sent us on a wild fucking goose chase.”  Bahorel gives him a long look.  “Thing is, neither you nor Enjolras has told us why, and you both seem content to pretend nothing happened.”

Again, the same urge to confess.  But Bahorel doesn’t know how bad he fucked up.  Doesn’t need to know.  Hopefully never knows, if Courfeyrac and Enjolras and Feuilly can keep quiet.  Sighing, Grantaire summons the same lie he told Eponine.  “I called him drunk like a week ago.  Apparently I was pretty pissed off ‘cause I broke my phone over it but I don’t really remember.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble over a conversation you don’t even remember.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who keeps talking about it, am I?”

And that’s the end of that.

 

Grantaire wakes up the next morning feeling like shit in every sense of the word.

He supposes that means it’s time to make a few apologies.

 

Grantaire heads to Courfeyrac’s first.  Courfeyrac has been caught up between him and Enjolras for too long, probably getting shit from both sides, and Grantaire can’t think of two worse people to be stuck between.  He owes him the biggest apology.

Unfortunately, even though Grantaire knocks for what seems like an hour, neither Courfeyrac nor Marius answers the door.  He rests his head against it, trying to decide what to do.  After a few moments, he sinks down to the ground, pulls out a beer, and settles in to wait.  

Grantaire is committed to fixing his problems with Courfeyrac, if he gets nothing else done.

 

“Grantaire.”

A hand falls onto his shoulder and he starts awake, rubbing at his eyes.  Everything hurts.  His backpack is a shitty pillow, the carpet is too thin, and the nap did nothing for his headache.  Opening his eyes, Grantaire sees the beer bottles scattered around him and realises he must look like the biggest shit in the world.

Then he looks up to meet Courfeyrac’s gaze not a foot away from his face and he feels like the biggest shit in the world too.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire mumbles out, voice scratchy.

“Why are you here?”

“’Cause I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps I should come back later.”  Grantaire looks over Courfeyrac’s shoulder to see Combeferre lurking a few feet away.  Craning his neck around Courfeyrac, Grantaire is both relieved and disappointed to see that Enjolras is not there to complete the little trio.

“I’m sorry, Combeferre.”  Courfeyrac stands up.  “I’ll text you a bit later, okay?”

“No problem.”  Combeferre takes the time to give Grantaire a considering look that he doesn’t care for at all before walking off down the hallway.

Courfeyrac unlocks his door and steps over Grantaire.  “You coming in?” He calls over his shoulder.

Grantaire peels himself off the floor.  “Why was he here?”

Courfeyrac collapses into a chair at the table.  Grantaire hovers awkwardly a few feet away.   “He wanted to go over a few things from the meeting today.”

“Meeting?” 

“Honestly, Grantaire, if you would just make a Facebook account and join the group you would know about these things.”  Someone could have come to get him, of course, but neither of them mentions that.

“I really am sorry.  For what I said to you yesterday.”

“I forgive you.”  Courfeyrac looks tired. He looks like the last thing he wants to do is forgive Grantaire.  “I’m not gonna lie, it hurt a little.  But it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not fine.  I fucked up.”

“Well going on about it isn’t going to fix it now,” Courfeyrac mutters.  Grantaire can understand that.

There’s no real easy way to segue into the next part of the conversation so Grantaire just asks point blank.  “Can I borrow your phone?”

Courfeyrac goes very still.  “Why?”

“I want to text Enjolras and-“

“Grantaire.”  Courfeyrac runs a hand through his hair and smiles a little, tired smile.  “I know I’ve kind of been taking your side in this whole Enjolras thing.  Maybe that’s partly due to guilt over the role I played in the night he kissed you, or whatever.  But you crossed a line yesterday.  He has every right to be mad at you right now.”

 _Just like you do,_ Grantaire thinks.  He wonders if he’ll be able to fix this mess.  “I know that.  I want to apologise.  Please.”

Courfeyrac reaches into his pocket but doesn’t pull out his phone.  “Why isn’t yours fixed yet?”

“It’s Sunday.  I called a repair shop but they aren’t open until tomorrow.  Why...” And then Grantaire gets it.  “You think I blew the money on alcohol.”

Courfeyrac just stares at him and Grantaire can’t even be angry.  It wouldn’t be the first time he spent borrowed money on alcohol.  Every mistake he’s made hangs heavily over his head.  “Look, I promise you the money is sitting in my sock drawer. Just...”  The words die.  There’s nothing more he can say to convince Courfeyrac.

Luckily, Courfeyrac just sighs, pushes his phone across the table, buries his face in his hands.  “Delete the texts afterwards, okay?  I don’t want to know anymore about it.”

It turns out even Courfeyrac has a limit of other people’s shit he can take.  Grantaire feels terrible for finding it. “Thank you.”

Grantaire sits down across from Courfeyrac.  It takes him a long moment to compose the message.

_It’s Grantaire.  I wanted to apologise for yesterday.  I don’t have any excuse or anything, I’m just really really sorry._

A couple stressful minutes pass.

_I guess we’re even then._

Grantaire frowns.

_Have you been waiting for me to fuck up so you can say that?_

And then –

_No.  But now you know how it feels to be sorry for something that didn’t mean anything._

Grantaire tosses the phone on the table. 

“Hey, don’t break my phone, too.  I think this was a bad idea.”

Grantaire almost laughs, because it seems like his life is just one bad idea after another. 

Standing up, Grantaire says, “You’ll have to delete the texts yourself.” 

After all, what’s one more thing he has to apologise for?

 

 

By Tuesday, Grantaire’s phone is fixed.  On the bus ride home from the repair shop, he looks through the missed texts and voicemails from his friends.  They’re all from a few days ago, back when they were still worried about him.

Maybe it’s selfish, but it makes Grantaire a little happy to see their concern.  From the casualness of Bahorel ( _are you planning on replying to your texts or what?_ ) to the scariness of Eponine ( _if you make me worry about you for no reason I swear to God I will drink all of your alcohol_ ), it all reminds him of a time that was a little less shitty than right now.  Even Marius manages to make him smile a bit ( _Can you please just text Courfeyrac he’s pacing around the apartment like a crazy person)._

Courfeyrac’s texts just make him sad ( _Grantaire I’m so fucking sorry about Enjolras he’s a dick just please call me_ ).

He doesn’t even bother reading the ones Enjolras sent him.

 

By the time 3am rolls around, Grantaire has his phone out, and he’s reading Enjolras’ texts over and over again.  They were sent the morning after Grantaire called him, after he broke his phone and started fucking things up.

_I’m sorry about what I said last night._

_Maybe we could talk later so I can properly explain?_

_Please let me know._

Grantaire can’t help but wonder – what if he had read these a week ago, would it have changed anything?

He realises there is still a part of him that believes Enjolras kissed him for a reason other than spontaneous curiosity.

Grantaire has never hated a part of himself so much.

 _Two weeks,_ he thinks.  _Two weeks, three days, and seven hours since Enjolras kissed me._

Two weeks, three days, and seven hours since he was last happy.

Not that anyone is counting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a plot line begins to emerge and I finally decide where this AU is set.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for your words of encouragement, you are all lovely. :)
> 
> If any of you live in Quebec, I would love to have a chat with you. Please send me a message at my tumblr (willtheworldrememberyou.tumblr.com). Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

Grantaire shows up at the Thursday meeting with a little speech prepared in his head.   Slipping into his usual seat near Bahorel, he thinks through what he wants to say.  _Don’t over prepare,_ Courfeyrac once told him before an oral exam.  Not exactly easy advice to follow.

“Hey,” Bahorel greets.  “You doing alright?”

“Yeah.”  Grantaire says shortly, not wanting to risk forgetting his apology speech.

Enjolras stands up and the Amis falls silent.

 “I want to apologise.”

 Apparently, this is rather shocking.  Everyone turns to look at Grantaire with varying expressions of surprise. 

Trying to swallow his doubts, he continues.  “I know I’ve been kind of out of hand recently.”  He pointedly doesn’t look at Enjolras or Courfeyrac or even Feuilly.  Grantaire has been much more than out of hand and he doesn’t want to see it written there in their expressions.  “But I’m going to try and be a better friend.  Maybe even a better Ami, but no promises there.”  Grantaire offers a small smile.  It’s half of what he planned to say but he thinks – hopes – it’s enough.

The ensuing silence is a little bit awkward.  Cosette’s expression is one of pure confusion.  She doesn’t see him that often and probably didn’t even realise that he was acting any differently.  Combeferre, inexplicably, smiles.

Grantaire looks to Enjolras.  He isn’t looking back at him, his gaze instead focused up over his shoulder.  Grantaire wonders if he even heard his apology.  “Thank you, Grantaire,” Enjolras says finally.  His eyes touch on him briefly before addressing the group.  “We should start the meeting.  I have exciting news to share with you all.”  Enjolras leans forward then, and everyone is right there with him.  Grantaire flops back into his seat, feeling slightly defeated.

Bahorel places a hand on his shoulder and leans in close.  “Apology accepted,” he says. 

Grantaire wants to make some sort of joke, because he and Bahorel are never serious, but instead he just mutters out, “Thanks”. 

“Earlier this week, The Social Work and Sociology students at our university voted in favour of a strike,” Enjolras says.   “Starting Monday.”  Grantaire looks up.  _Shit._

“It’s true,” Cosette says, and she smiles wide, feeding off Enjolras’ energy.  “Social Work is my major.  We decided on an unlimited strike until the Government agrees to cancel the tuition increase.”

“It’s starting at Laval, but it will quickly spread,” Enjolras says.  “La CLASSE announced today that a general student strike is imminent.  With their support, students will quickly join us.”

Grantaire stares at Enjolras.  A petition is one thing.  A strike among a few Laval students he can handle.  But la CLASSE encouraging a strike – who represent thousands of students and more every day – _what kind of fucking riot are they trying to turn Quebec into?_

“The petition was a good start,” Enjolras murmurs, almost to himself.  Grantaire can see how the Amis are drawn into his words, leaning slightly towards him.  “We already have a large number of signatures just from this week alone.  But it’s too small.  The Government won’t respond to civil demands.”

“He’s right,” Courfeyrac says.  “La FECQ and la FEUQ presented a petition with over thirty thousand signatures to the National Assembly last December.  It was even endorsed by an MNA.  What did it accomplish?  Nothing.”  Courfeyrac shakes his head.  “What good is a piece of paper now?”

La CLASSE. La FECQ. La FEUQ.  Grantaire doesn’t even know why they stand for.  _All groups fighting against this god damn tuition increase,_ he thinks, _and we’re one of them.  How the fuck did I get myself involved in this?_

“Strikes have always ended in the students’ favour,” says Musichetta.  “I was still in school when the 2005 strike happened.  It will be hard but we can win.” 

“Your experience will be very useful, Musichetta,” Enjolras says.  “The time to act is now.  We can’t wait a second longer.”

Everyone speaks at once then, and Grantaire can tell they’re all convinced.  It’s not that Grantaire particularly minds, really.  He barely attends class anyway.  But he can already see the Amis out on the streets, the riot police, their brutality...

“What if the Government doesn’t react?”  Grantaire says, and his cynicism cuts through all of their voices.  Silence falls.  “What if we fuck up this semester for no reason?  Tuition fees won’t stay low forever.  Look at the rest of Canada.  They already pay twice as much as us.  Even with the increase, we’ll still pay less than them.”  Grantaire heaves a sigh, feels a hundred years older than he is.  “Why should we protest the inevitable?” 

 “Quebec is not the rest of Canada,” Feuilly interjects.  Grantaire prepares himself for a passionate Separatist speech.  “Look at our history.  Our language.  Our culture.  We have a right to defend that.  Quebecois students have fought time and time again for our right to education.  We always win.  We will this time as well.”

“We can’t strike every time the government tries to wring more money from us,” Grantaire says.  “I’m not talking about culture.  It’s the way the world works.  Those with power build their wealth off the backs of the poor.  Corporations exploit child labourers in developing countries.  Then they spend millions of dollars on advertisements promoting their products as environmentally friendly just to appease our consciences.  Pharmaceutical companies hold back cures so they can make more money in the long run.  Banks will-“

“Grantaire.”  Enjolras holds up a hand.  “Please stay on topic.”

“We must focus on practical action,” Combeferre says before Grantaire can reply.  “Grantaire is right in one thing – we need the Government to take us seriously and for that, we need numbers.  Thirteen people striking will only do damage to our own education.”

Enjolras nods. “The student associations must be convinced to vote in favour of a strike.  That is our goal.  Even at Laval, we could potentially add thousands of students to our cause.”

“So for now, we return to class?”  Courfeyrac sounds decidedly unhappy about it.

“Yes,” Enjolras says.  “For a few weeks, if necessary.  We need solidarity across the student body.  The thirteen of us going on a strike will be ignored.”

_The things they are discussing,_ Grantaire thinks, _will explode much larger and faster than they can imagine.  They’re like children putting on suits and going to work instead of to day care.  Way in over their heads and they don’t even know it._ He doesn’t know how to speak his thoughts though.  Enjolras’ annoyance with him keeps him silent.  _Later,_ Grantaire promises himself.

They already know he doesn’t believe any of it anyway.  Enjolras starts discussing specifics with each Ami, assigning duties and giving advice on how to spread their cause.

He doesn’t discuss anything with Grantaire.

 

Combeferre rarely goes to the bars with the rest of the Amis, and Enjolras never, so it’s sort of an unspoken agreement that the Amis get together at their apartment every few weeks.

Friday is one of those occasions and Grantaire seriously considers not going. 

It’s not difficult to see the appeal of staying in his crappy little basement suite and getting absolutely wasted.  He thinks about the cold leftover pizza in his fridge that he can devour once he’s drunk.  He remembers all the new horror movies available on Netflix.

It’s not a hard decision after all.

Grantaire ignores the rallying texts from Courfeyrac ( _party at E and C’s be there at 8 bring snacks and alcohol)._ Once he settles into the couch with his laptop, a bottle of whiskey, and three slices of pizza, he decides there is no reason he needs to move for at least three hours.

Grantaire manages to get through the entirety of a shitty Indie film and halfway through a Japanese horror flick before the texts start to roll in.  At first, he ignores them, trying to focus on the terror of Asian schoolgirls, but eventually curiosity wins out.

Courfeyrac’s sent him at least half a dozen texts, gradually increasing in their angry tone.  Bahorel asks him if he’s broken his new screen already.  Eponine threatens to break down his door if he’s holing himself up with movies again.

The one from Enjolras gives him pause.

_I hope you’re not avoiding me._

It’s an unfair text in Grantaire’s opinion.  On one hand, Grantaire doesn’t think he has the will power to avoid Enjolras.  On the other, he’s kind of avoiding Enjolras.

His phone vibrates in his hand.  Courfeyrac is calling him.

“Hello?”

“If I told you Enjolras was naked, would it convince you to come over?”

Grantaire snorts.  _If Courfeyrac is this drunk already,_ he thinks, _it means it’s a shitty party_.  “Enjolras isn’t naked.”

“You don’t know that.”

Someone shouts at Courfeyrac in the background and suddenly he’s talking to Eponine.  “Grantaire, the party is shit without you and everyone agrees.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s shit because it’s at Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment.”

“Lies.  We’ve had plenty of good parties here and you know it.”  Grantaire does know it but he also knows that the low quality of the party isn’t due to his lack of presence.

“Tell him we all accept his weird apology!” Courfeyrac shouts.

“Will you just tell me why you’re not here?”  It’s suddenly quieter on the other end.  Eponine must have moved into the bathroom or a bedroom.

“I’m tired of fucking things up all the time.”

“So you think avoiding all of us, which by the way, is the reason things got fucked up in the first place, is a good idea?”

“That’s not why things got fucked up in the first place.” Grantaire has avoided them before.  Never longer for a couple days, but sometimes he needs his space and the Amis never question it too much.  But it isn’t about that, this time.  This time it’s about Enjolras’ lips on his own and how he can’t stop thinking about it and-

“Will you tell me the fucking truth then?”

A million little daggers that he could use to deflect float through his mind.  How she’s a compulsive liar.  How she hides her abusive boyfriends from him.  Her unrequited love for Marius.  But it’s not fair.  She has just as much shit on him as he does on her.  “Things got fucked up because Enjolras is an asshole and I’m in love with him.”

“Oh.”  It’s the first time Grantaire has ever admitted it out loud to anyone else other than Enjolras himself.  Grantaire finds he doesn’t really care.  “But how is that different than any other time?”

“Because I’m tired.”  This is the exact opposite of the conversation that he wants to be having right now.  He wants to say that everything is alright and that he’s only sleepy or too drunk or anything else at all.  “Please put Courfeyrac on the phone.”

“Grantaire, I-“

“I really need to talk to him.”

“He’s pretty drunk.”

“Please.”  Eponine sighs, and after a few moments he’s speaking to Courfeyrac.

“Is there a reason I am talking to you while in Enjolras’ bedroom?”

Grantaire doesn’t even contemplate the question for a second.  “Okay, so you’re the only person who knows why I’m not at that party.”

“Right.”  Courfeyrac seems to have gained a little of his sobriety back, for which Grantaire is eternally grateful.  “Other than Enjolras, of course.  Actually come to think of it he probably hasn’t realised.”

“I’m not planning on telling anyone else,” Grantaire says.  “That means you have to try and get everyone off my back.”

“No.”

A flash of frustration runs through him.  “I can’t deal with their shit right now.”

“A million times no.  No.  Fuck no.  Grantaire, listen.”  Courfeyrac sighs heavily.  “Enjolras fucked you up.  I get that.  But you’re fucking everyone else over because of it and it’s really not cool.”

“I know.”

“Then why aren’t you at this party?”

“Because I’m a child and I don’t know how to deal with my problems.”  Grantaire thinks that if either of them were relatively sober they wouldn’t be having this conversation at all. 

“Then let me help you out.  Come over here.  Everyone’s all depressed and shit because they’re worried about you and it sucks.”  Courfeyrac pauses for a second.  “For all the shit you’ve put me through, you owe me.  I came home last Sunday to find you passed out on my doorstep because you wanted me to forgive you.  If you want forgiveness so bad, don’t fucking apologise.  Stop doing the things that you’re so sorry for.”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”  It’s the last thing that Grantaire wants to do but his guilt is a little too much to drown out with alcohol.  “Give me a few minutes.”  He hangs up without waiting for Courfeyrac’s reply.

 

A full hour passes before Grantaire actually shows up at the apartment.  As soon as he steps inside, a chorus of greetings welcome him in.

Courfeyrac relieves him of the two bottles of liquor he brings as a peace offering.  It’s getting close to midnight and everyone is at various stages of drunk.  A furious round of Mario Kart is taking place in the living room.  Musichetta and Cosette are involved in a deep conversation at the kitchen table.  Instinctively, Grantaire looks around for Enjolras.  He finds him leaned up against the counter, speaking with Joly and Combeferre.

“Grantaire, it’s your turn,” Bossuet calls, handing a controller out to him.  “Eponine has been kicking our asses for the last hour and we are in need of both your skill with a controller and quality of insults.”

Grantaire smiles and joins his friends.

 

Two hours later and Grantaire is feeling pretty good.

He’s not sure if it’s the joint that he shared with Eponine and Bahorel out on the deck, or the shots he took with Courfeyrac, or the way Enjolras sometimes glances at him, but Grantaire doesn’t ever want the feeling to end.

“I need a smoke,” he tells Bahorel.

“No, you fiend, I’ve already smoked half my pack tonight.”

Frowning, he tries Musichetta.  “Spare a cig?”

“Grantaire, when’s the last time you bought your own pack?”

“A few days ago.  I think.”

“Perhaps you should invest in one instead of constantly bumming off your friends.”  She smiles.  “We all have our limits.  Or should I come around asking for some alcohol?”

“Point taken.”  Grantaire surveys the room.  He knows Eponine is out.   Jehan is quitting.  Feuilly is passed out on the couch and Grantaire would feel awkward searching his pockets.  The rest are all non smoking heathens.

Which leaves only Combeferre.

His last hope is sitting at the kitchen table, beer in hand, talking with Joly.  Grantaire sits in the chair next to him and leans dangerously close to his face.  “Combeferre, will you do me a great favour?”

“What do you need?”

“A cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke.  Ask one of the others.”

“What?”

“I said ask someone else-“

“No, no.”  Grantaire waves a hand.  “Before that.”

“You mean the part where I don’t smoke?”

“Yeah. That.”  Grantaire frowns.  “Since when?”

“Since always.”

“Oh.  Are you holding out on me?”

Combeferre sighs.  “No.  I honestly don’t smoke.  Would you like to check my lungs for tar?”

Grantaire doesn’t like the image that pops into his head.  _Stupid med students,_ he thinks.  “That’s fine.  You did trick me with your smoking face, though.”

“What, exactly, is a smoking face?”

“Don’t worry.”  Grantaire pats his cheek lightly.  “It’s a compliment.  Smoking is sexy.”

“Smoking is not sexy.”  Joly leans over the table.  “Lung cancer is not sexy.  Heart disease is not sexy.  Strokes are not-“

Grantaire places a hand over Joly’s mouth.  “Bossuet, Musichetta.  Your hypochondriac needs a hug.”  

Joly pulls his face away and begins rubbing at his mouth while his lovers rush over to comfort him.  _They make a nice spectrum,_ Grantaire thinks, eyeing the contrast of Joly’s paleness to the darker skin tones of Bossuet and Musichetta.  He wonders if that’s racist.  _Observations shouldn’t be racist,_ he tells himself.  _Avoiding racism doesn’t mean being colour blind. I think Combeferre said that once._ His craving for a cigarette intrudes on his rambling thoughts.

Grantaire leans back into Combeferre, smelling at his clothes.  “Are you sure you aren’t a smoker?”

“Grantaire.”  Combeferre places a gentle hand on his forehead and pushes him back.  “Why don’t you take a quick walk to a gas station and buy yourself a pack?”

“Excellent idea.  I’m going to buy cigarettes,” Grantaire announces loudly as he heads for the door.  It takes him a moment to get his winter apparel on but eventually he is all bundled up and ready to go.

As he’s leaving, Grantaire spots a girl across the hallway, struggling to fit her key in the door.  “So how drunk are you tonight?  Not that I’m judging or anything.  I’m always keen to meet fellow drunk people.”

She looks over her shoulder at him and smiles a bit.  “Not at all, unfortunately.  I just got off work.”

Her dark skin and pointed features remind Grantaire of a hawk.  _A very familiar hawk,_ he thinks.  “Louison.” 

She frowns and turns to face him.  “How do you know my name?”

“You’re a waitress at the Musain.”

“Ah.”  She smiles again, and this time there’s a light in her eyes.  “You’re one of the Amis.”

He shrugs and nods.  At this point, it’s too much effort to explain the truth.  “Kind of a strange coincidence that you live so close to Enjolras.”

“He got me the job, actually.”  She leans against her door, leaving her key in the handle.  “He set me up an interview with Musichetta himself.”

“That sounds just like him.”

“So how come you’re here so late?”  She cocks her head a bit, amplifying her hawk-like look.  “Are you a good friend of his?”

Grantaire decides to leave that question alone.  “I’m going to buy a pack of cigarettes.  None of my friends were kind enough to lend me one.”

Smiling, she opens her door.  “Come in then, you can have one of mine.  We’ll smoke it out the window.  It’s too cold to go out there right now.”

Grantaire just nods slowly and follows her in.  Her apartment is much the same as Enjolras and Combeferre’s.  _Except it looks lived in,_ he thinks.  Empty bottles and dirty dishes are scattered around, stacks of books piled haphazardly on shelves, posters and paintings covering almost all of the wall space.  Grantaire immediately feels at home.

“Who’s your roommate?” Grantaire asks in a hushed voice.

Louison glances at the closed door.  “She’s probably asleep. Come on.”  She leads him into her own room and hands him a cigarette and a lighter.  “Just keep the smoke out the window,” she says.

Grantaire situates himself on the bed so he can lean against the wall and hold his hand out the window, occasionally leaning over to take a drag.  Glancing over, he realises Louison is changing out of her work uniform a few feet away from him.  It’s dark and he can’t see much, but the city light is enough to define the smooth curves of her breasts and her sharp hip bones.  Grantaire feels suddenly warm and pulls off his coat and sweater. 

“You’re watching.”  Her eyes catch his gaze following her movements.

“You didn’t seem to mind.” 

Louison walks over and plucks the cigarette from his fingers.  Leaning against the window ledge, she considers him with dark eyes while taking a drag.  It’s like that for a few moments, passing the smoke back and forth between them without speaking.  Her only protection against the cold blowing in through the window is a pair of cotton shorts and a t shirt.  Grantaire can see the goose bumps rising on her skin.

Grantaire may be drunk and stupid but he can see where this is going.  He sends a quick text to Courfeyrac telling him not to expect him back at the party.

“What’s your name?”  Louison asks as she stubs out the cigarette on her windowsill.

“Grantaire.”

Then she descends on him and presses her lips to his.

Louison wastes no time, pushing him back into the mattress and sliding her tongue across his lips.  Grantaire rubs slow circles under the hem of her t shirt with his thumbs.  Thoughts scatter from his mind.  The kiss is slow but forceful.  Louison sets her hips over his and dances her fingertips up and down his sides.

When she pulls back to kiss his neck, Grantaire catches her cheek in his hand and holds her still.  “Is this okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

“I just want to check.”  His heart taps out a strange rhythm and he feels a little shaky.

Louison runs a hand through his hair and smiles.  “Everything is fine, Grantaire.  Just relax.”  Then her lips are on his again.

She pulls off her shirt.  Her skin is just as smooth as it looked in the dim light and it pebbles under his touch.  Louison moves her hips slowly over his and Grantaire makes a little sound.

“Good?” She whispers.

“Yeah.”  Grantaire’s hands settle at her hips for a moment before winding up in her hair.  Eventually they make their way to her bra strap.  He can’t remember exactly how this is all supposed to work.  Swallowing, Grantaire tenses as she nips at his collarbone. 

“Is there a problem?”  Louison pulls away, hands resting lightly on his chest.

“With this? “  Grantaire motions to her.  “No.”  Then, pointing to his head, “Up here? Yes.”

Louison smiles.  “I can relate.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she leans down to kiss him softly.  “We can be fucked up together.”

Grantaire breathes deep and hugs her close to him.  His cock is definitely still interested in the heat of her settled above him.  Feeling his erection, she asks, “Do you still want to do this?”

“Yes.”  He pauses.  “As long as you understand that it means nothing.”

Louison chuckles.  The sound reverberates through her rib cage and into Grantaire’s arms.  “I didn’t invite you in here expecting marriage.  I just want a quick fuck.  Girls are allowed to want that too, you know.”

“I know.”  Grantaire sighs.  “It’s...complicated.”

“Only if you make it so,” Louison whispers into his ear, sucking at his lobe for a moment.  “Don’t think.  Tomorrow none of this will matter.”

Grantaire doesn’t have a single argument against that.

 

When Grantaire wakes up, the bed is empty and he takes it as his cue to quietly dress and leave.  While dressing he finds a sticky note stuck to his shirt – _that was fun.  If you ever get bored you know where I live._ He smiles and pockets it for safekeeping.

Grantaire feels a little guilty about snagging a cigarette from the pack on her desk but he promises himself he’ll repay her later.  Finding alcohol is harder, but Grantaire eventually comes across a bottle of tequila and swallows a few mouthfuls to keep the shakes away.  Then he picks up his coat, scarf, and toque and hurries out the building before there can be any sort of encounter with her unnamed roommate.

The morning chill that greets him is startling.  Shivering a little, Grantaire lights his cigarette before putting on his coat.  It takes a few minutes but he manages to zip himself up with his arms inside instead of through the sleeves.  One arm is pinned against his side and the other up against his chest, one hand poking out near the top so he can smoke his cigarette.

_Like a big jacket hug,_ Grantaire thinks, feeling rather warm and snug. 

Enjolras finds him like that a couple of minutes later.

“Morning, Enjolras,” Grantaire says.  They managed to mostly avoid each other at the party and Grantaire is not particularly thrilled about the unexpected encounter.  He realises that he never even responded to his text.

“What are you doing here?”  Enjolras asks.  “We thought you went home last night.”

“...Not exactly.”  There’s no point in lying.  “I stayed over at Louison’s.”

“Ah.” 

Enjolras’ expression has him stumbling over apologies but he holds up a hand.  “It’s fine, Grantaire.  I’m just a little surprised.”

“How so?”

“I wasn’t aware that you two knew each other.”

“We don’t, really.”  Grantaire doesn’t know how to explain it in terms that Enjolras will understand.  “We recognised each other in the hallway and she invited me in for a cigarette and-“

“I don’t need the details.”  Enjolras frowns.  “I didn’t think you were one to take advantage of a drunk girl.”

“I didn’t,” he replies a little defensively.  “She was sober.  Like I said, she invited me in, not the other way around.”

Grantaire can see the judgement in Enjolras’ expression.  The words Louison said pass through his mind – _girls are allowed to want a quick fuck too._

“Well I suppose I thought she had a little more self respect,” Enjolras says. 

“She has plenty.”  _Most likely_.  “Enough to know exactly what she wants.”

“...And that’s you.”

“Surprised?”

“I don’t particularly care.”  Grantaire starts to search his face for jealousy but then Enjolras says, “I’m actually glad I caught you here.  I wanted to speak with you.”

“We’re already talking.” 

Enjolras regards him for a long moment before continuing.  “I meant what I said the night that I kissed you.”

_Shit, did he say something important?_ Grantaire scrambles to remember.  The kiss is clear in his mind, but the actual conversation? He only manages to recall vague words.  “If that’s true, would you mind saying it again?”

Enjolras’ lips twitch.  “I would enjoy getting the chance to speak with you without having to argue.”

“Right.”  He wonders what Enjolras is hoping for. 

“I’ve watched you with the others,” he continues.  “They see a different side of you.  I want to know that side as well.”

“So...”  The words coil up in his throat.  “You want to be friends?” 

“Yes.”  Enjolras smiles.

Grantaire wants to reach out to him but his arms are still caught up in his coat.  Struggling to free himself, Grantaire tries to think of an appropriate response.  There’s not nearly enough alcohol in his system to give him confidence and he has to rely on his incoherent mind.  The idea of being friends with Enjolras seems ridiculous, like a child who dreams of becoming the president of the United States suddenly being voted into office.

“Do you need help?” Enjolras offers.

_In every sense,_ he thinks _._ “Can you just-“ Grantaire makes an effort to shove his arms through his sleeves but he only traps himself further.  “Can you unzip it for me?”

Enjolras steps in and pulls the zipper down, gloved hand brushing against Grantaire’s.  Finally he manages to get his coat on properly.  “I hope that little display hasn’t convinced you otherwise.”

“No.”  Enjolras leans back away from him.  “Listen, Grantaire.  I know we’ve had trouble resolving the problems I created when I kissed you.  At the time, I didn’t know about your feelings for me.  That was my mistake.”

Enjolras has a far off look to him, the same as when he’s giving a well thought out speech.  “Obviously I didn’t mean to manipulate you.  How I dealt with the entire situation is unjustifiable.  But I hope we can move passed that.”  Enjolras places a hand on his shoulder.  Grantaire wishes it was summer, that he was only wearing a t shirt, so he could feel the heat of his hand.  As it is, it’s only a light pressure, like a bird touching down for a moment before taking flight. 

Grantaire swallows.  “Anything you want, Enjolras.”

He frowns.  “I was hoping you would want to move forward as well.”

_You perfect idiot,_ Grantaire thinks, _whatever you want is what I want._ “Of course.  I...these last few weeks have been mostly my fault anyway.  You already apologised.”

Enjolras shakes his head.  “I’m not interested in whose fault it is.  I’m interested in the future.  Just think on what I’ve said.”  With that, he’s gone, disappearing into the building.

The conversation leaves Grantaire a little unsteady.  The offer of friendship terrifies him.  Before, he could do what he wanted.  He could rant and rave, let his anger loose, confess his love, and none of it mattered because Enjolras hated him anyway.

Now there is something to ruin.

Grantaire’s chest collapses both with giddiness and fear.  His breath whooshes out of him.  An old familiar mantra starts up in his head –

_Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up..._

Grantaire wonders just how much time will pass before he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took like sixteen years for me to update. Hopefully it won't take so long in the future?
> 
> Also the way Grantaire is zipped up in the last part of this chapter is super comfortable and everyone should try it.
> 
> If you are interested in beta reading this fic, come talk to me at my tumblr (willtheworldrememberyou.tumblr.com). Ideally you are mean and can edit quickly.
> 
> I love you all :)
> 
> End of ramble


	5. Chapter 5

Grantaire considers not answering the phone when Eponine calls him on Tuesday night.  Most likely it’s a summons to a bar or an invitation to a Lord of the Rings drinking game and Grantaire really does not feel like moving. 

But then a bar and a drinking game both involve alcohol and who is he trying to kid?

“We’re going to Carnaval tonight,” Eponine demands before Grantaire can even say hello.  “It’s been on for like a week already and we haven’t gone together yet.  Also it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m sad and lonely and-“

“It’s Valentine’s Day?”  Grantaire replies, frowning down at his bottle of whiskey.

She huffs.  “Of course you don’t even know what the date is.  _Yes,_ it’s Valentine’s Day, and not to depress you or anything but we’re both single and pining and you’re all coming to Carnaval with me.”

“Eponine, seriously.”  Grantaire’s already standing and looking for his winter coat.“You really think I need an excuse to be drunk and merry and eat delicious food?  Save your arguments for the others.”

“Ha!” Eponine cheers loudly.  “You are the perfect friend, Grantaire.”

“When are we meeting?”

“At the entrance to Place Desjardins in half an hour.  See you there. Bye!”

Eponine hangs up before he can even reply.

 

It’s closer to an hour later before Grantaire wanders over to the meeting place.  The last thing he wants to be is early.  He hates waiting.  Plus, it would be a disservice to his reputation to be on time.

“Grantaire!”  Eponine throws her arms around him as soon as she spots him.  The night is bitterly cold, and Grantaire buries his face into her woolly scarf.

“I need some alcohol to warm me up as soon as possible,” he mutters.

“That can be arranged,” Eponine says.  “If you can’t tell, I’m already three quarters of my way to drunk.”

“You’re much better off than I am, then.”

Eponine laughs and releases him and they move to join the rest of the Amis.

Closer to the entrance, Jehan is practically bouncing with excitement, much to the amusement of Bahorel.

“Just like a kid who’s snorted sugar,” Bahorel says as Grantaire walks up. 

“You’d be surprised at how little of an effect snorting sugar actually has.” 

Bahorel shrugs.  “I thought it was a good metaphor.  I guess you can’t really blame him though, this is only his second year at Carnaval.”

Chuckling, Grantaire says, “Do you remember last year after the dogsled race?”

“Oh shit, don’t remind me.”  Bahorel shakes his head.  “I’ve never seen someone so eager to die of suffocation from dogs.”

“Whoever gave him dog treats aimed to kill,” Grantaire agrees.  “So, who are we waiting for?” 

Of course, Grantaire already knows.

“Enjolras and Combeferre.  Wrapped up in some sort of planning, I think.  Should be here soon.”

“Can’t they leave the protest alone for one night?” Grantaire says but the complaint is half-hearted.  He doesn’t want to see Enjolras.   _Having to look at him on Valentine’s Day, after everything that’s_ _happened..._

“Apparently they can.”  He nods over Grantaire’s shoulder and sure enough, Enjolras and Combeferre are there, approaching towards them.

“Great, so now we can go.”  Grantaire turns abruptly and heads for the ticket booth.  _Definitely don’t want to see him,_ he thinks.

Immediately after entering, Grantaire spots a souvenir shop nestled off to the right.  An idea strikes him and he walks over, spending a few minutes going through the various knick knacks.  Eventually Grantaire picks out a music box with _Bonhomme_ , the snowman mascot of Carnaval, smiling widely up at him from the painted lid.

Grantaire purchases it and cranes his neck around, looking for Jehan.  A moment later, he spots him at the Sugar Shack, speaking to the woman working there. 

“You’re from France, aren’t you?” Grantaire hears the woman ask as he walks over.

“Yes,” Jehan replies.  “I’ve been here for a year and a half though.”

“Your accent is beautiful,” she says, smiling.

“Thank you.”  He shyly returns her smile as the woman sneaks him a free sample of maple taffy.

Grantaire sighs.  _Jehan is unfairly enchanting,_ he thinks.  _Even_ I’m _buying him presents._ “Here,” he says, thrusting the music box out to him.  “You shouldn’t be alone on Valentine’s Day.  I make a poor replacement but I thought you might like this.”  _And also thank you for looking out for me._

Jehan turns toward him, surprised.  “Grantaire!  You are so kind.”  Jehan takes the music box and winds the crank, listening to the music for a moment with a smile.  Then he hands it back.  _Shit._ “But I think you should give it to Eponine.  She is the one that invited us here, after all.”

“To Eponine.”  Grantaire looks down at the box, feeling a little stupid.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” Jehan says hurriedly.  “But I think she’ll like it even more.”

Shrugging, Grantaire sets out to find Eponine, wishing only a little that he had skipped the entire idea.  He finds her by the Caribou drink stand, the famous alcoholic beverage already cupped between her hands.  “This is for you,” Grantaire says.  “From me and Jehan.”

Eponine raises an eyebrow at the music box.  “You and Jehan?”

“You know how he is,” Grantaire says.  “All romantic or whatever.  Also it’s Valentine’s Day so I get to buy you things.  Thanks for bringing us all here, I guess.”

Eponine smiles softly, leaning in to kiss him on the small area of exposed skin below his eye.  “Thank you.”  She places the music box carefully in her purse.

Smiling from behind his scarf, Grantaire says, “Don’t even think about it.”  _I guess Jehan was right,_ he thinks.  _Why am I still surprised by that?_

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and when he turns Courfeyrac presents him with a mug of Caribou.  “I figured you’d appreciate this.”

“You have no idea,” Grantaire mutters.  He takes a long sip, the warmth of the liquid seeping into his stomach and fanning out into his limbs. “Come on, let’s go sledding.”

 

Despite his attempts to avoid him, Enjolras corners Grantaire among the snow sculptures about an hour after arriving.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire calls, trying to sound cheerful.  It’s not his best effort, but Grantaire figures his tone is close enough to happy for it not be awkward.  “How is your Carnaval experience going?”

“You should stop drinking for the night,” Enjolras says, frowning.  “It’s dangerous when it’s so cold out.”

Grantaire waves a hand.  He’s still at least three drinks away from having to concern himself about that.  “I’m fine.  If you’re so keen on worrying, save it for Eponine.  She was drunk before we even arrived.”

“Bahorel’s taking care of her.”

“Really? Well, she can handle herself, anyway.” Grantaire strives for a casual tone.  “Did you come looking for me?”

“Courfeyrac said you were here.”  _Bastard._ He’d disappeared to the bathroom only five minutes before.  “I wanted to make sure you weren’t drinking too much.”

Grantaire bows mockingly.  “I assure you, I’m nearly sober enough to drive.”  _Not that I know how to drive anyway,_ he thinks.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Grantaire chuckles.  “Well, if you’re so eager to stop my consumption of alcohol, you’ll have to ride the Ferris wheel with me.”

“What?”

“I’m pretty sure you heard what I said.”  Grantaire loops an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders and starts leading him towards the ride.

“Is there any particular reason why?”  Enjolras sounds reluctant but he follows Grantaire’s guiding arm well enough.

“Consider it a fun activity between a couple of friends.  That’s what you want, right? To be friends.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply.

_Shit,_ Grantaire thinks.  _Did that come out a little bitter?_ “In any case,” Grantaire continues, “it’s the only way to stop me from drinking my way to hypothermia.  I’m not beneath emotional manipulation, you know.”  _Much like yourself._

Enjolras sighs.  “Fine.  I will ride the Ferris wheel with you.”

_And the victory goes to Grantaire._

The line up is long but Grantaire is content enough to wait.  Enjolras spends most of the time trying to convince him it’s a bad idea.

“Can’t we get food together instead?” Enjolras says as the operator holds open the door to the passenger car for them.  “Why this?”

“Wow, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, pulling Enjolras in after him.  “You can at least pretend you want to spend time with me.”

“It’s not that.” 

_Isn’t it?_ Grantaire thinks, watching Enjolras tense as the Ferris wheel starts to move.  He wonders if he’s made a mistake.  _Why am I even surprised?_   “Just try to relax, take in the view, maybe even enjoy yourself.  It can’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Enjolras doesn’t respond, just grips onto the side and looks away from Grantaire.

Much of the ride proceeds exactly like that.

Grantaire quickly aborts any attempt at conversation, as Enjolras makes it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want to talk.  Uneasy, Grantaire fills the air between them with nervous chatter.   Emotions fly through him – anger, confusion, a kind of fear that leaves him feeling shaky.  _Why won’t he look at me?_ The unfriendly wall between them presses against Grantaire and his anxiety spikes out of control.  

“I don’t know what your problem is,” Grantaire says as the Ferris wheel finally slows to a stop.  “But you could have at least tried to talk to me.”

“I told you I didn’t want to ride the damn Ferris wheel, Grantaire,” Enjolras grinds out.  They’re near to the top of the ride as the people in the passenger cars below begin to unload. 

“Well, I’m sorry, but you got on it, didn’t you?”  Enjolras looks at him and Grantaire regrets the accusing tone in his voice.  More quietly, he adds, “I just wanted to do something fun for once.  I’m sorry.”

Enjolras’ expression softens and his lips twitch up a little.  Grantaire immediately recognises the expression – the same one he had the night he kissed him.  Swallowing, Grantaire tries to summon any words at all that will erase that look off of his face.  _Anything but that,_ he thinks desperately.  _I can’t stand to see you look at me like that._ But his tongue falls heavy in his mouth and Grantaire can only gaze back helplessly.

Enjolras lifts a hand towards him and Grantaire stares at it.  “Don’t do something you’ll regret, Apollo.”

The Ferris wheel jerks forward and Enjolras’ hand flies to Grantaire’s arm, fingers clutching tightly. His other hand returns to its vice grip on the side of the passenger car.  “Don’t call me that.”  Grantaire stares at him in surprise.  Enjolras’ eyes are squeezed shut and his voice sounds almost fearful.  Glancing down, Grantaire realises just how high up they are.

Suddenly, all of Enjolras’ behaviour makes sense.  

“You’re scared of heights,” Grantaire says.  Grantaire’s hand moves to cover Enjolras’, still at his arm.  “Holy shit.”  The thought of Enjolras feeling fear never even occurred to him.  _How could I not see?_ In an instant, heavy guilt presses down on Grantaire’s shoulders.

“Yes,” Enjolras hisses out in reply.  He takes several deep breathes.  “That’s why I didn’t want to ride this damn thing.  It has nothing to do with you.”

“A-...Enjolras.”  The words trap themselves in Grantaire’s throat.  The Ferris wheel jerks forward again and Enjolras breathes in sharply.  Grantaire wants nothing more than to protect him, to make him feel safe again.  _I put him in this situation.  He told me he didn’t want to but I threw words in his face until he agreed_ _to do it_.The thought paralyses Grantaire and all he can do is clutch Enjolras’ hand.

“I’m fine.”  The words are steady but they both can hear the lie.  “It’s almost over, anyway.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”  _Why did you let me fuck up again?_

Enjolras breathes slowly, purposefully.  “Because I should face my fears.”  Then, looking to Grantaire again – “And because you wanted to do it.”

_Oh._ Grantaire blinks quickly a number of times before responding.  “You don’t owe me anything, Enjolras.”

Enjolras exhales heavily through his nose, relaxing infinitesimally as they edge closer and closer to ground level.  “I know.”

Eventually, they reach the bottom, and Enjolras’ grip on Grantaire’s arm relaxes as he takes a shaky breathe.  They exit the ride in silence.  Grantaire turns to him, about to apologise, but Enjolras starts speaking first.

“No more alcohol,” Enjolras says.  “Like you said.”

“Fine.”  _At least not until we leave._

“I’m going to get something to drink.” 

“Right.”  Grantaire wonders if there’s an implied invitation buried in the statement.  “I’m going to go find Courfeyrac.”

“Okay.”

Grantaire walks away from him, hands trembling slightly.

 

The following Saturday, Grantaire sits on his couch next to Bahorel, staring blankly at the hockey game on his TV.  He doesn’t usually like to watch the sport.  It reminds him too much of how he used to play, how he should still be playing, but can’t seem to find any particular motivation to do so.  _Nothing like a sharp reminder of your own failures,_ Grantaire thinks, watching the players crash into the boards and chase after the puck.  _I used to be good, but what does it matter now?_  

“Let’s go somewhere.” 

Grantaire looks over at Bahorel, raising an eyebrow.  “Like where?  It’s a bit early for the bar.”

“Not the fucking bar.”  Bahorel gestures vaguely with a hand.  “I mean somewhere interesting.  Let’s go do something.”

“Okay.”  Grantaire frowns.  “I’m basically broke, so...”

“Don’t worry about the money.”  Pausing for a moment, Bahorel adopts what Grantaire assumes to be his thinking face.  _Don’t see that very often,_ he thinks.  “Let’s go for a drive.”

“A drive?”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire waits for some sort of explanation, but with apparently none forthcoming, he asks, “Why?”

“Because I’m tired as shit of sitting around watching hockey.”  Grantaire has to agree with that.  Bahorel stands and heads for the door.  “Dress warm.”

“Why do I have to dress warm for a fucking drive?”

Bahorel pauses in pulling on his boots to give him a look.  “Well it’s up to you, but if we break down out there and you freeze to death before a tow truck can come get us, you’ll know exactly who to blame.”

Sighing, Grantaire goes to put on an extra couple layers.  “If I freeze to death I am blaming no one but you!”   

 

After almost an hour of driving, Grantaire is fairly sure that Bahorel misled him in some way.

“Bahorel, not that I don’t trust your navigation skills, but we aren’t even in the city anymore.  We’re in the middle of a forest.”

“Montmorency forest, to be exact.”

Grantaire stares at him for a moment.  “You totally planned this trip.  I call bullshit on your ‘just a drive’ idea.”  Not that Grantaire is particularly mad – he’s more curious than anything.

Bahorel grins, keeping his eyes closely focused on the road.  The night is dark and snowy and Grantaire is infinitely glad that he’s not behind the wheel.  “You can’t really blame me.  If I had told you where I was taking you, you probably wouldn’t have come.”

“Yeah, for a good reason,” Grantaire mutters.  “Just please don’t slide off the road, that is my biggest nightmare.”

“Shut up or I’ll do it to keep you quiet.”

Grantaire does not say another word for a long time after that.

After another fifteen minutes of driving, Bahorel pulls off to the side of the road.  Staring dejectedly out the window, Grantaire tries to figure out where exactly Bahorel has brought him.  All he can see is a frozen lake off to his right and more trees.  “What the fuck, dude.  Are you a serial killer?  Is this where you’re going to murder me?”

“Just get out of the car.”  Sighing heavily, Grantaire gets his winter coat back on and zips it up tight.  As soon as he steps out, the cold air slaps against his exposed skin.  Pulling his scarf high around his nose and his toque low on his forehead, Grantaire looks around again.  _Literally in the middle of nowhere._

Something hits Grantaire in the back and he turns.  “Is that a sleeping bag?”

“Yep.”  Bahorel closes his trunk and starts pulling his own sleeping bag out of its sack.

“Out of all the people I know, I think you’re the only one who casually carries around sleeping bags in his trunk.”

Bahorel chuckles.  “Hey, you’re glad for it now, aren’t you?”  Grantaire really is. The sleeping bag adds a much needed layer of warmth.  “Plus, you never know when you’re going to be caught out somewhere and need to crash in your car.”

“Like a true boy scout.”

“Shut up and come down here.”

Grantaire stares after Bahorel as he begins tramping his way down the bank. For a moment, Grantaire actually considers the possibility that they are going to die out there.  _Well I suppose I can’t let him die alone._ Sighing, he follows after Bahorel’s footsteps.

Bahorel stops at the edge of the frozen lake, sleeping bag pulled tightly around him.  When Grantaire moves to stand beside him, he quickly realises why Bahorel wanted to come out here so badly.  Sparkling softly with the light of the stars, the blanket of snow covering the lake stretches pristinely in all directions, snow covered mountains looming over the far edge.  The sky opens wide above them, startlingly clear.  With the moon giving off only a tiny sliver of light, the countless stars dominate the night sky.

“Oh,” Grantaire breathes, staring around himself.  There’s not a single touch of humanity present.  Grantaire feels simultaneously insignificant and extraordinarily full, like his presence takes up all of the vast expanse before him.

“Have you ever seen the night sky without light pollution?” Bahorel asks, voice subdued.

Grantaire looks up. “No.” The Milky Way slashes across the sky, and it takes a long moment for Grantaire to comprehend that he’s staring directly into the depths of the galaxy.

“Worth the drive?”

_Yes._ “Shut the fuck up, you smug bastard.  How do you even know about this place?” 

Bahorel chuckles a little.  “The forest is actually managed by our University.  I came out here with my Biology class last year.  Bad choice for a mandatory science credit but that one trip made all those shitty lectures worth it.”

“Laval owns a forest?”

“You’d be surprised by the amount of shit Laval owns,” Bahorel says.  “Our prof actually didn’t take us this deep.  We stopped about twenty minutes back.  I always wanted to come and see the rest of what was out here.”

Grantaire frowns at him.  “You’re saying you were just driving hoping you’d eventually hit something awesome?”

Bahorel grins.  “Perhaps.”

_That’s exactly fucking like him_ , Grantaire thinks _._ They stand in silence for a few minutes.  The quiet between them should be uncomfortable, given their usual chattiness, but at the moment it feels right.  Their surroundings show only the black of night and the white of snow, like someone shifted the colour scheme of the world to monochrome.  It makes him ache a little, some brand of sadness that he can’t quite grasp.  The coldness settles in around him and Grantaire pulls the sleeping bag a little tighter around his shoulders.

“So what do you think about Enjolras’ grand idea?”  Bahorel asks suddenly.

Grantaire has to think for a moment to remember just what that is.  “What, moving to Montreal?”  He sighs.  Enjolras brought it up at the last meeting.  The idea on its own was ridiculous – to pick up and move cities simply for a protest seemed beyond reason.  But Enjolras, as always, presented it like it was their sole chance at success.  _We let him blaze through our lives and down the path ahead of us,_ Grantaire thinks, _and all we can do is clutch at his sleeves and hope to keep up._ “I’m not all that surprised.  He’s always chasing after something bigger than what he already has.”

“We do need a real protest, though,” Bahorel says.  “The city of Quebec doesn’t have the same enthusiasm or numbers.  What’s the point of striking if we’re not in Montreal?”

Grantaire frowns.  “The Amis wouldn’t be so set on following him if he didn’t speak so well.  Moving cities just for a protest is radical.  And expensive.”

“What do you think you’ll do?”

Grantaire doesn’t even need to think about it.  “I suppose I’ll follow him.”

Bahorel grunts.  “Has your student association voted on a strike yet?”

“No.  Speaking of which, can I sleep on your couch for a few nights once March starts?”

“Why?”

“I gave up my basement suite.” Grantaire studies the empty air in front of him.  “I figured there’s no point in paying rent for March if I’m going to end up chasing after Enjolras halfway through.”

Bahorel nods slowly.  “Okay.  But I don’t think I’ll be in Quebec City all that long either.”

That surprises Grantaire.  “You really think the Econ students will vote in favour of a strike?”

“There’s no chance in Hell.  You should hear some of the shit they say.”  Bahorel frowns and he’s uncharacteristically silent for a long moment.  “I’m dropping out.”

Grantaire almost lets go of his sleeping bag.  “What?”

“I’m done with University.”  Bahorel shrugs.  “I don’t belong there.  It’s a waste of time and money.”

“Well, okay,” Grantaire says slowly.  “Shouldn’t you at least finish the semester?”

“Why?  I’m not planning on going back.”  Bahorel shakes his head.  “Plus, do you really think I’m going to let you all start a riot in Montreal without my help?  I’m not sitting back here in a place I hate when I could be fucking with the Government.”

“Right.”  Grantaire isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to say.

Bahorel sighs.  “I shouldn’t have come back after first year.  I already knew University was all wrong for me.  But I didn’t want to be the stereotype, you know?  The Native kid who can’t hack it and drops out.”

“I don’t think anyone would think that about you,” Grantaire says.

“Not you, maybe, but people are assholes.”  Bahorel scowls.  “I guess you don’t really notice it if you’re not First Nations, but I feel like sometimes people are just sitting around waiting for me to fuck up – some parts of my family included.  I’ve spent all this time running from that.  Trying to make something of myself.  I thought the best way to do that would be to get a degree.  But what’s the point if I hate my life once it’s all over?”

“Shit.”  Grantaire knew about Bahorel’s background, but it wasn’t something he openly talked about – at least not around him. “What are you going to do?”

Bahorel shrugs.  “I don’t know.  Take a year off, work, save up money.  I’ll probably go to technical school and get a diploma in Mechanics eventually.”

“Wow.”  Grantaire smiles.  “Okay. I like it.”

Grinning, Bahorel claps him on the back and says, “I knew you’d understand.”

_Why?  Because I dropped out, too?_ Grantaire thinks.  “As awesome as it is out here, can we go back to the car?  I’m about to freeze my ass off.”

“Great idea.”  The two of them hurry back up the bank and hop into the car, trying to rub warmth back into frozen fingers and limbs.

While they wait for the car to warm up, Bahorel says, “Thanks for listening, Grantaire.  I haven’t told anyone yet and it’s kind of been killing me.”

“Dude, no problem at all.” Grantaire looks over at him. “Anytime, really.”

“For you, too.”  Bahorel raises his eyebrows.  “Okay?”

Grantaire swallows and glances away.  “Right.”  Idly, he considers telling Bahorel all the little secrets he holds.  Grantaire wishes it could be as simple as standing before a frozen lake, confessing his love for Enjolras to the stars, and some great weight therefore lifting off of him.  But his chance to let Bahorel in on his web of confusion passed long ago and Grantaire keeps quiet.

Bahorel lets the moment slide by without comment. 

“Please try not to kill us on the way back,” Grantaire says. 

Chuckling, Bahorel replies, “Are you doubting my winter driving skills?”

Grantaire eyes him for a moment.  “Sometimes it’s more about luck than skill.”

Bahorel grins.  “Well good thing it’s not Bossuet driving.”

“Don’t even say that.”  Grantaire thinks he would prefer to walk back if that was the case.

Eventually the car warms up and Bahorel pulls away from the lake.  Grantaire looks back at the sight of it until they pass around a bend in the road.  _Like we’re leaving our own little world,_ Grantaire thinks.  _And it’ll disappear when it’s out of sight._

Grantaire doesn’t know if he’ll ever return there, but he thinks the image might just be burned into his mind forever.

 

It’s a week later and Grantaire holds a paintbrush in his hand and a bottle of brandy in the other, contemplating the empty canvas before him. 

He doesn’t even remember the last time he painted – probably something for a Visual Arts class, or maybe a Christmas gift for his parents, or even a quick splattering that he did while drunk that perhaps he can’t recall.

Grantaire doesn’t remember when he last painted, but he can almost guarantee that it was of Enjolras.

It’s not that Grantaire does it on purpose, but whenever he reaches within himself for inspiration, the only thing that comes to mind is blonde hair and striking eyes and _red,_ always so much red.  Even when he consciously tries to avoid painting that face, anything else looks false, like he’s painting a lie.  Those paintings seem wrong until he manages to work something of Enjolras into them.

This time, Grantaire doesn’t even try to forestall the inevitable. 

Grantaire drops the brush and picks up his pencil, sketching out a basic outline.   It’s not hard to recall the straight slope of his nose, his high cheekbones, the feminine curve to his neck.  Enjolras has ended up in his sketch books enough times for the features to flow easily from Grantaire’s hand.  In mere moments, Enjolras is there on his canvas staring back at him.

The paints come next.  Grantaire loses track of time soon after starting.  Hunger, thirst, and fatigue all fall away and all Grantaire can focus on is the movement of his hand through the colours.  Grantaire can’t even glance away, just in case he forgets in that moment how to finish the rest.  It takes eternity to perfect the eyes and even longer for the mouth.   Enjolras’ hair follows soon after, highlighted brightly as if the sun shines down upon him.  Grantaire doesn’t stop for a break, only pausing once and awhile to take a swig of brandy before returning brush to canvas.  The sunlight streaming through his window slowly blinks away to nothing and Grantaire doesn’t notice until it’s pitch black outside. 

It’s when the canvas is nearly filled with colour that Grantaire sets the paintbrush down.  He steps away and slowly massages his hand, trying to relieve his cramping fingers.  Grantaire purposely avoids looking at the finished product for a moment, not entirely sure what he will find there.

Taking another few steps back, Grantaire finally considers his painting.

Almost always, Grantaire paints Enjolras from memory instead from a photograph.  Because of that, Enjolras becomes even more Godlike than in real life, radiant and proud and everything that Grantaire isn’t.

But not this time.  This Enjolras stares at him with fear.  The same fear Grantaire saw the night at Carnaval.  Eyes wide, brows crinkled, lips slightly parted –

_He looks human,_ Grantaire realises. 

Grantaire feels his own expression twisting to reflect Enjolras’.  Fright on the face of his God looks misplaced, and yet the expression seems to suit him.  Grantaire didn’t even know Enjolras could look so scared until he saw it himself. 

_Enjolras is just a person,_ Grantaire thinks.  _With fears and thoughts and desires like the rest of us.  Faults like the rest of us.  Mistakes like the rest of us._ Grantaire grimaces.  He already knows the truth of that – _I shouldn’t have kissed you,_ Enjolras told him.  _He can feel regret too,_ Grantaire thinks.  _But that’s only reserved for me._

Grantaire can’t help hoping – hope, what Enjolras inspires in him but dies when faced with the rest of the world – if Enjolras is human, holds a human heart, feels a human’s emotions –

Can Enjolras feel anything for him?

Grantaire can only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember last time when I said this chapter would be out sooner? That was a big lie. I apologise.
> 
> A million thank yous to tumblr users Orestesfasting and waroftheposes for your help with betaing :) You are both lovely.
> 
> My own tumblr is willtheworldrememberyou if you'd like to come say hi :)
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for police brutality in this chapter.

The end of February sneaks up on Grantaire.   As per usual, he procrastinates packing until the very last moment and ends up throwing out a lot of his belongings.  The rest he stuffs into random boxes and bags.  Grantaire knows he’ll probably hate himself for it later, but at the moment he’s not particularly concerned.  _Between packing properly and sleeping,_ Grantaire thinks as he surveys the messy pile, _I always choose sleeping, without fail._

“You’re going to be fucked when you come back from Montreal,” Eponine says, standing with Bahorel.  Luckily, they both agreed to help him move, saving Grantaire a hellish trip on the bus.  “You have literally nothing except old clothes and art crap.” 

“I like to think of it as an excuse to buy new things,” Grantaire replies, picking up a couple boxes to carry out to Bahorel’s car.  Between the three of them, they manage to take all of Grantaire’s belongings in one go. 

“Besides, I wanted to move anyway.”  Encounters with the old couple living upstairs flash through his mind.  Stumbling in drunk more than a few times, going in their front door by accident, having to explain the puke in the front garden.  _Honestly I’m shocked they haven’t kicked me out already,_ Grantaire thinks.  _Must be my adorable face._

“I’m just glad you’re not making me move a shit ton of furniture,” Bahorel says.  “Although finding a furnished place will be a pain in the ass.”

Grantaire shrugs, setting the boxes down on the ground beside Bahorel’s car and zipping up his coat.  _Still so damn cold._   “I’m sure I’ll figure it out later.”

“Bullshit.” Bahorel grins. “Ten bucks says you’re gonna end up on my couch again the minute we get back.”

“Yeah, probably.”  _At least we all acknowledge it._

“Where are you going to stay in Montreal?” Eponine asks.

“Not sure yet.”  _Probably a homeless shelter._   “What about you two?”

“I’m subletting out my apartment and staying with my parents.”  Bahorel says, popping open the trunk. 

 “They live in Montreal?”  Grantaire asks, surprised. 

“No, just outside.”  Bahorel says shortly.  Sensing Bahorel’s discomfort, Grantaire lets the matter drop and begins placing his boxes in the trunk.

“I’m going to keep paying rent for my place here and stay with Courfeyrac’s parents in Montreal,” Eponine says.  “Knowing my roommates, they’d find someone ten times more awesome than me while I’m gone and I’d be left homeless.”

“Aw, no one’s more awesome than you, Eponine,” Bahorel says, pulling her into a side hug.

“Isn’t Courfeyrac staying here?” Grantaire asks, pausing to blow warm air over his fingers.  “You’re going to stay with his family without him?”

“Yeah, I know, awkward, but I can’t afford to pay rent,” Eponine says.  “You should stay there too.  We can hang out with his crazy Lebanese family together.  Maybe we’ll come back with awesome accents.”  _Seems kind of racist, but okay._

“They’re not too bad,” Bahorel says.  “The food’s delicious.  And they’d probably let you stay for free.  It’s not like they need the money.”

“Delicious food, no rent?”  Grantaire nods slowly.  “Could do.  Could definitely do.”

“Plus,” Eponine slips her arms around his middle while Bahorel plays Tetris with Grantaire’s bags, trying to fit them all into the back seat of his car.  “We get to share a bed and cuddle all night.”

“Now there’s a deal I would take any day of the week,” Bahorel says, finally managing to get all of the doors closed.  “Speaking of getting cozy, you two are sharing the front seat.”

 

By the time night falls, they’ve finished moving Grantaire in and they celebrate at Bahorel’s with a couple of beers.

“To roommatehood,” Bahorel proclaims loudly, clinking his bottle against Grantaire’s.  “Even though we’ll probably be out of here in a couple weeks anyway, the way Enjolras is talking.”

Grantaire nods, taking a sip from his beer.  _I need to find a place to stash my alcohol,_ he thinks.   _I refuse to deal with Bahorel’s shitty drinks for any longer than absolutely necessary._  “Have you dropped out of classes yet?”

“Yeah, yesterday.  I am officially free.” Bahorel spreads his arms wide for a moment, head tilted up to the sky.

“Lucky,” Grantaire replies, briefly thinking of all the work he’s been avoiding since about the beginning of time.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be on strike and back to following Enjolras around in no time.”  Bahorel grins at him.  Just a joke, Grantaire knows, but it’s a little too close to reality for him to keep the bitterness out of his smile. 

“I doubt he’ll keep me around for much longer,” Grantaire says.

Bahorel shakes his head.  “Whether or not you stick around with the Amis isn’t up to him.  He doesn’t get to kick you out just because he feels like it.  You’re our friend.”

“Well, I wish I could be friends with him too.”  Mostly Grantaire wishes he could sound less whiney about it, but he figures there’s no helping that.

Shrugging, Bahorel says, “Some things aren’t meant to be.”

 

Unable to sleep in the unfamiliar surroundings, those very words run through Grantaire’s mind a million times that first night on Bahorel’s couch.  Grantaire knows he and Enjolras aren’t meant to be – not in any way he could take it to mean.  His expectations are no more or less than what Grantaire already has with him.

But as always, the memory of the kiss refuses to let go.  That it even happened seems ridiculous, impossible, and yet – _a month later and it’s still on my mind,_ Grantaire thinks.  He closes his eyes and tries to force himself to sleep.  _A year from now and none of this will even matter.  I should stop caring._

The thought fails to raise his mood.  Grantaire doesn’t want to be over Enjolras.  He doesn’t want to forget about him.   Even with the disdain, the confusion, the dysfunctional attempt at friendship, Enjolras still remains the best thing that has ever happened to Grantaire.

Sometimes he thinks it might just kill him to be so close. 

Sometimes he thinks he wouldn’t mind at all. 

 

The Musain is full of chatter when Grantaire steps in.  He instantly considers leaving, anxiety settling uncomfortably in his chest.  _I don’t recognise any of these people._ When Enjolras said he was inviting a few more students to the meeting, Grantaire had expected only a handful to show up.  But the new students fill the entire cafe, noisy and unfamiliar.  Grantaire can’t see over their heads.  Searching for the Amis seems pointless.  _This was a mistake,_ Grantaire thinks, quickly pulling off his winter coat and scarf.

Grantaire still isn’t entirely sure why he decided to come to the meeting.  He’s not particularly interested in the logistics of the protest and he knows his usual teasing wouldn’t be tolerated.  _It’s not like a really have a choice,_ he thinks.  _What else would I do with my time?_

 “Thank you all for coming,” Enjolras says loudly, climbing up onto a table, and the room quietens down.  Craning his neck, Grantaire is able to see the rest of the Amis gathered behind him.  _Well how the fuck am I supposed to get over there?_

Enjolras starts explaining the plan to move to Montreal for the protest but Grantaire ignores him for the moment.  He already knows what his plan is – follow his friends wherever they go.  None of the minor details really matter.  Currently, Grantaire’s main priority consists of finding a path through all the unfamiliar faces to be with his friends like normal. 

As Enjolras talks, Grantaire tries to wind his way through the students, careful not to cause too much of a disturbance.  It’s too cramped to make much progress, and Grantaire briefly considers crawling on his hands and knees.  _I suppose I should keep some level of dignity,_ he thinks as he presses against the counter to get passed a particularly large fellow. 

Finally, with a little brute force and a few murmured apologies, Grantaire manages to join the Amis behind Enjolras.  He probably shouldn’t be up there with them, given his lack of leadership or commitment or anything of value, but a hug from Courfeyrac and smile from Eponine makes him feel a little more welcome.

Once safely among his friends, Grantaire allows his thoughts to wonder, tuning in to Enjolras just enough to hear the sound of his voice.  He gathers maybe half of what he says – moving to Montreal next week (so that’s when Grantaire should expect to go), Combeferre and Musichetta remaining behind to lead the efforts in Quebec city, further discussion of strike votes.  None of it really interests Grantaire but Enjolras sounds passionate tonight and he smiles fondly at the excitement there.

Eventually Enjolras hops down from the table and the students in the cafe cheer loudly for a moment.  Grantaire shake his head.  He has no lack of adoration for Enjolras, but the cheers seem a little too far.  _I suppose that’s what it’s like to let yourself care,_ Grantaire thinks, watching the students talk excitedly to each other, _to think anything we do could change a thing._

“How did the vote go?”

It takes Grantaire awhile to realise that Enjolras is standing at his side, speaking directly to him.  “What?”

“Yesterday.  Your faculty voted on the strike.”  Enjolras raises his eyebrows and Grantaire panics.  _Shit_ , _it was yesterday?_   “How did it go?”

“Uh...good.”  Far from Grantaire’s most convincing lie.  But it’s not really worth the effort – he watches helplessly as disappointment blooms in Enjolras’ eyes.  _Is he even surprised at all?_

“You didn’t go.”  Enjolras pronounces it like a death sentence.

“I...”  It’s one thing to knowingly fuck up, to realise when he is disappointing Enjolras, and continue on anyway.

It’s entirely another to have Grantaire’s own mistakes unexpectedly sprung upon him.

“I didn’t go.”

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose, and even over the noise in the cafe Grantaire still hears his sigh.  “I don’t expect much from you,” he says.  “But I thought you might have cared enough to at least vote.  You know how important this is.”

“That’s your mistake,” Grantaire replies.  “It’s not like I signed your petition either.”

“Then why are you here?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire smiles softly.  “You know why.”

Enjolras frowns, pauses.  “You’re here for me.” He says it almost like a question.  _How can you still be unsure about this?_

“Yes.”   Grantaire wonders how many times they’re going to have to discuss it before Enjolras understands.   _As if it wasn’t embarrassing the first time, to reveal my obsession with you,_ he thinks.

Enjolras doesn’t seem to know how to respond, just looks at him for a long moment before his attention is pulled away by Combeferre.

Sighing, Grantaire slips out of the cafe without another word to anyone, uninterested in watching Enjolras give his attention to everyone but him.

 

The next day, a quick Google search gives Grantaire an answer for Enjolras and he sends a text to let him know.

_The vote passed. My faculty is on strike :)_

Grantaire supposes he should have been a little more invested in the results, given that he no longer has a place to live in Quebec City.  _I wonder what I would have done if it hadn’t passed.  Probably drop out like Bahorel._

The reply comes only a few moments later – _then you’ll be at the protest on Thursday?_

Grantaire tries to remember anything about a protest on Thursday.  Deciding not to ask for details, Grantaire texts back – _yes of course._ He can just ask Courfeyrac about it later.  _After all, no point in disappointing Enjolras more than I need to,_ he thinks.

He’s not really expecting for Enjolras to reply, but a moment later his phone vibrates. 

_Good._

_Good?_  Grantaire’s mind lets that sink in for a moment.  _Does Enjolras want me there?_  Grantaire can’t think of a witty reply, so he leaves it alone, happy to finally have a conversation with Enjolras that ends on a good note.  _Who knows, soon we may even be having them face to face.  But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves._

 

It turns out the protest is in downtown Montreal, and Grantaire wakes up early Thursday morning to catch a ride with Courfeyrac.  Most of the Amis make it, even though it necessitates missing a day of class for those not on strike.  Grantaire puts it down to Enjolras’ ability to be all too convincing when he needs to be.  _Apparently only Musichetta is immune – although that may have more to do with working a full time job._

Grantaire huddles closer to Courfeyrac, still half asleep and already cold.  It’s their first real protest, and Grantaire has no idea of what to expect.  A few hundred students mill about in the area, chattering excitedly.  Grantaire hopes whatever is supposed to happen happens soon so he can find the nearest bar and make something of the trip to Montreal.  _I guess I’ll be living here soon,_ he thinks.   _I should at least learn where the better bars are at.  And a good steak house, and the best restaurant open late, where to find some half decent Chinese food.._.

“You’re thinking happy thoughts,” Courfeyrac says.  “You should share them to distract me from this miserable weather.”

“Food, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire replies.  “Food makes every situation better.”

“Food and a pretty girl.  Or a pretty boy,” he amends, nodding over to Enjolras.  “Although he’s less likely to giggle at our bad jokes.”

Grantaire chuckles as Enjolras approaches them, looking more excited than Grantaire thinks he’s ever seen him.  “Grantaire, I’m glad you came,” Enjolras says.  Courfeyrac wanders off, calling over to Joly, leaving the two of them alone.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Grantaire says as pleasantly as possible, silently making bets over how long he can keep the conversation from deteriorating into an argument.  _Five minutes and I’ll take a shot, ten minutes and I’ll take two..._

“You did.  Walk with me.” 

It’s not so much walking as it is forcing their way through the crowd inch by inch, and Grantaire makes sure to stay as close as possible to Enjolras.   Slowly, they fight their way up the stairs to the front of the building in front of which most of the protestors are gathered. 

“This is the Loto-Quebec head office.  I think some students are planning to force their way into the building later.”  Enjolras’ disapproval shows clearly on his face.  Turning, he stares out across the crowd.  Grantaire follows his gaze to see a couple of cops watching the protestors from a distance.  “Damn.  Already.”  Enjolras frowns.  “This could escalate quickly.”

Sighing, Grantaire’s hand automatically strays to the flask in his coat pocket.  Enjolras’ hand chases Grantaire’s and stops him from grabbing the flask.  “Not today, Grantaire,” he says softly.  “Can you do this for me?”

 “Anything.”  The response is automatic.

_Don’t make promises you can’t keep, you fucking idiot._

“Don’t worry about me.”  Grantaire tries to keep his tone light, free hand clenching into a fist.

Nodding, Enjolras squeezes his hand for a moment before releasing it.  “Very well.”  And then he’s gone, slipping through the crowd like a ghost. 

 

Over the next hour, tension gradually weakens into boredom.   Despite all the initial excitement, Grantaire quickly realises protesting is mostly just standing around and yelling loudly.  _Well, it’s already been too long since my last drink anyway,_ he thinks.   His hands have already picked up a slight tremor.  With Enjolras busy chanting and sign waving, Grantaire leans up against the building and pulls out his flask. 

It’s rum today, a good brand that Grantaire shelled out an extra few dollars to get.  The strong taste washes out the guilty feeling in his throat, settling into his stomach as a comforting warmth.  Smiling, Grantaire tips his head back, feeling better already.  _That didn’t take long.  And I don’t even feel that bad about it._ Grantaire considers that for a moment.  _Maybe I’m just getting used to failure._ Frowning up at the sky, Grantaire takes another drink and tries to leave that thought alone.

Heading over to the top of the stairs, Grantaire surveys the protesting students, searching for his friends.  He quickly spots Bahorel prowling the edge of the crowd closest to the cops, red handkerchief pulled up around his face.  Grantaire reminds himself to keep an eye on him in case any trouble starts.  Enjolras is only a few feet away from Bahorel, and Grantaire quickly turns away when he sees him.  Of course, Enjolras is too caught up in speaking to those around him to notice Grantaire, but he slips his flask up into his sleeve anyway.

Looking the other way, Grantaire spots Joly not too far off, huddled into Bossuet’s shoulder.  “I hate the cold,” Joly complains as Grantaire approaches, sneezing twice. 

“It’s already March,” Grantaire says. “Soon it’ll be sunny and warm and snow will just be a distant memory.”  Given their luck in recent years, it’ll probably snow right into May, but Grantaire keeps that little tidbit to himself.  After all, there’s no reason to unduly upset Joly over weather.

“Hopefully the government will have cancelled this tuition hike by then,” Bossuet says.  “Then we can enjoy the summer properly.  I was thinking of a road trip to the Maritimes.”

Joly eyes him.  “I hope _you’re_ not planning on driving.”

“I doubt this will be over by then,” Grantaire says, before Bossuet can reply.  “We can all assume Enjolras isn’t going to give this up.  He looks too much at home here.  And the government won’t change their policy just because of us.  Once everyone is tired of throwing a tantrum, it’ll be back to class again.  Eventually we’ll swallow this tuition hike down along with all the other crap the Liberals throw at us.”

“No so fast, Grantaire,” Bossuet says.  “We’ve only just started.  This is a democracy.  Eventually they will listen to us.”

For a brief moment, Grantaire allows himself to imagine such a success.  Thousands of protestors, numbers growing every day, taking to the streets, storming the buildings, demanding the government revoke the tuition increase.  Angry demonstrations followed by celebrations of every victory.  The Amis, all of his friends, celebrating.  The feeling of accomplishment, joy.  _As if life wasn’t a lesson in disappointment._   

Easy to imagine, but fear tangles itself into Grantaire’s thoughts.  He can see the faces of his friends locked behind bars, having to take the same classes over again in the fall to make up for the lost semester.  A short Wikipedia article making their failure known.  _What’s the point?_    

 _This is only the beginning,_ Grantaire thinks, _but I’ll have no part in any of it._

“What’s got you so lost in thought?” Bossuet asks.

“If I were the premier,” Grantaire says, “If I were in charge of Quebec, this would be done today.  I’d sign a law for a tuition freeze.  Fuck, I’d make education free, like they do in Europe.  No one would have to worry about this again.  But I’m not.”  Grantaire shrugs.  “Better to focus on problems we can solve.  I’m in no hurry to let the Government make me into a criminal – although there’s a nice sort of irony to it, that the real criminals run free while we, who only wish to improve things, get locked up.”

“How come you’re here, then?”  Joly asks. “Why not stay where it’s warm and dry?” 

 _That same question.  Why do people always expect me to have the answers?_ “My friends are here,” Grantaire finally says.  “Where else would I be?”

Bossuet pulls Grantaire into a group hug, tucking Joly further under his arm.  “Soon this will all be over,” he says cheerfully.  “Then Joly can be warm, Grantaire can entertain us, and everyone will be happy.”

 

It doesn’t take long for it to fall apart.

Grantaire stays at his vantage point on the stairs, taking increasingly frequent drinks from his flask.  It’s clear that some students are getting restless as the day goes on.  A few of them do manage to rush into the building but they’re quickly forced out again.  The number of police officers grows exponentially.  Soon after, the riot police show up.  Reporters and cameras surround the area.  Grantaire immediately starts looking for the Amis, fingers clutching tightly around his flask.

He spots Enjolras fairly quickly.  He sees him yell and point at a group of students off to the side, trying to force his way over to them.  Grantaire watches as they begin lobbing snowballs over at the cops, crunching against riot shields and bouncing off helmets.  Enjolras finally reaches them, pushing their arms down, but the idea spreads and there are too many to stop. 

Grantaire’s fingers drum against his flask, watching the riot police form up into a line, shields locked together.  _We need to go,_ he thinks, but Enjolras is trapped in the thick of things, the other Amis are scattered all throughout the crowd.  It’d be difficult in all the chaos to find them once Grantaire leaves the stairs.  Taking a deep breath, Grantaire forces himself to stay put for the moment.

The riot police advance quickly, driving students away from the building with their shields.  The police and students scream at each other.  Grantaire can’t make out any of the words.  The vast majority of the students begin leaving, but it’s clear that a few have decided to hold their ground.

Another anxious twenty minutes pass before it escalates to violence. 

The riot police pull out pepper spray and the students at the front of the mob begin stumbling away.  The chants get louder.  The cops push harder.  Grantaire searches for Enjolras.  _Where the fuck is he?_ He sees Feuilly go down near the back.  Combeferre pulls Joly away, motioning quickly with his hands.  Marius and Cosette stumble out of the crowd, clutching tightly to each other.  Three police officers surround a student, and they force him to the ground and handcuff him.  It doesn’t look like one of the Amis but Grantaire can’t be sure.  _Time to leave._ Grantaire spots Enjolras near the front, much too near the range of the pepper spray for Grantaire’s liking.

Stuffing his flask away, Grantaire rushes into the crowd, keeping his eyes trained in the direction he last saw Enjolras.  It’s difficult to move.  Some people push back, trying to escape from the stream of pepper spray, while others force the crowd forward.  Still, the riot police advance.  The crowd numbers only fifty or so now but it’s enough to create chaos. 

Loud bangs start going off overhead and people get frantic.  Someone elbows Grantaire in the jaw but he keeps moving, arms thrown overhead to protect him from whatever the fuck the cops are throwing at them.  Someone screams for an ambulance.  Panic shoots through Grantaire and he starts throwing limbs, desperate to get to Enjolras.

More bangs.  Grantaire ends up right against the shields of the riot police.  “Get back!” One of them roars in his face.  “Get back!”  Beside him, a protestor starts up a chant, face covered with a mask. 

_Where is Enjolras?_

One of the police shoves at him with a shield, causing him to stumble.  Somehow Grantaire manages to keep to his feet.  When he regains his balance, Grantaire sees Enjolras straight ahead.  Bahorel is behind him, screaming in the face of the cops.  For a brief moment, a gap opens up between the protestors and the riot police and Grantaire moves quickly forward, eyes focused on his friends ahead.

He barely makes it two steps before pain lances through his eyes.

 _Fucking pepper spray._ Grantaire stumbles, clutching at his face, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.  His eyes refuse to open.  Moving blindly, Grantaire takes another step forward but he’s pushed back again by the crowd.

Hands close around Grantaire’s upper arms and pull him forward.  Another arm comes around his waist, guiding him away.  “Don’t rub your eyes.”  _Fuck you._ “Grantaire!”

_Enjolras._

Enjolras takes his hands into his own, pulling them away from his face.  The stinging is still intense.  “I’m going to pour water over your eyes,” Enjolras says, speaking into his ear.  He wraps an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder, holding him still.  “Stay calm.”

Water rushes over his face but it doesn’t help much.  Reaching out blindly, Grantaire cups Enjolras’ face in his hands.  “Are you safe?”  He asks, voice tight with pain.

“I’m fine.  I...don’t know about the others.”

Leaning against Enjolras, Grantaire breathes deep, hoping the water and his tears flush out the pepper spray as he prays for the safety of the Amis.

_Please be okay.  Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for my hiatus! But I have returned. I'm going to try and update more regularly in the future. :)


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